Ishandra : Icy's Tale
by Aelfstangard
Summary: Icy's autobiography in the words of the beautiful Witch herself. What was childhood like for Icy in late 18C Italy? Who was her Faerie friend? What event turned her heart to ice? Illustration: Icy and her mother as ferrets by Heather Bruton.
1. The Woman in the Window

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**Notice: **I do not own _the Winx Club _upon which my fan fiction is based. This is the property of Iginio Straffi to whom I give full acknowledgment. My only goal has been to produce a high quality fan fiction that further explores the wonderful world of Witches and Faeries that he has created for us and that will be entertaining for those who love the_ Winx Club _as much as I do and that Sr. Straffi himself would be proud to read.

Because my stories based on the Winx Club come from the Witches' camp, which has been barely developed in the animated series, I have had to, perforce, to fill in from my own imagination many blanks concerning the Witches' life-styles and culture and also create a host of original characters to give my stories substance. As a result, my stories take place in an alternate version of the Winx Club universe, so, you must expect to fine deviations from what most of you may have come to expect. I am hoping, though, that you, my good readers, will find that this enriches the Winx Club universe and that you will read and enjoy my stories as much as I enjoy penning them for you.

If you are new to my stories, I suggest that you read them in the order_: Ishandra : Icy's Tale, The Musa Wars_ and then the rest. _Shego And The Trix_ is a cross-over story that takes place in both my alternate Winx Club universe and the Kim Possible universe but builds to a degree upon the first two stories.

Ælfstangard

}

**Ishandra  
Icy's Tale**

A Winx Club Tale  
By Ælfstangard

High in the highest tower of a crystal palace located between Alfea College and Cloud Tower, a beautiful woman with long raven tresses and olive hued skin sits on the broad ledge of a large open window and watches the sun set through dark brown eyes. As the last rays of the sun vanish and the stars begin to shine, she reaches into the night sky and makes a scroll of parchment out of a piece of it. Then, with the long nail of her index finger, she dips into pure silver starlight and begins to write in the fine, graceful but angular script of enchantment.

A year has already come and gone since the events that changed my life forever and set me on the path I'm on today. I sit to record them before time steals or jumbles my memory of them.

It started simply enough. It was the time after the Alfea Wars which failed to obtain for us the Dragon Fire and after our betrayal by Lord Darkar when he took Bloom, who had been transmuted into an evil Faerie by his dark powers, as his main Witch, an oxymoron if ever I heard one, and abandoned us to our fate. But my sisters, Darcy and Stormy, and I converged to create an entity, which we named the D.I.S.-tress, and as one united in revenge we delayed Lord Darkar enough that the Hero Sky could break his hold on Bloom which lead to the destruction of his plans to seize the Ultimate Power and imprisoned him in the Dark Abyss.

Darcy, Stormy and I are prisoners at Cloud Tower from which we are unable to escape. Not that we haven't tried but all of our attempts just land us back in the foyer or in our crib at Cloud Tower. Even Miss Griffin, the current headmistress of Cloud Tower, tried to escort us off the Cloud Tower campus only to see Darcy, Stormy and I vanish before her eyes and turn up back at the Cloud Tower foyer. Why? I don't know. There are speculations. Some say that it is Cloud Tower itself that is keeping us here – its wrath kindled against us for having sent our powers through its veins in an attempt to control its heart and for the theft of its part of The Codex. Some say other things but the fact remains that we are unable to escape. I survive here only because here is my home where I still have my crib, my possessions and my crib mates, Darcy and Stormy, to keep me company.

Even though I am a prisoner, I am far from bored because I am allowed all the time I want in the library and the book chambers to do research. Knowledge, I have long since learned, is power. It was such knowledge that empowered me to decrypt the enchanted manuscripts of the First Witches, my ancestors, and to learn of my heritage and destiny to be the Witch Guardian of the Dragon Fire. It is still my goal to realise that dream but the past disasters have taught me that a headlong rush is not the way but cold, careful and meticulous planning is. So I bide my time, pour through books, scrolls, manuscripts and other information storage devices amass knowledge and draw up my plans.

It is through strange fate that Miss Griffin has aided me in my quest. Realising that she was stuck with our presence at Cloud Tower, she put the three of us to work as professor's assistants figuring that keeping us apart and busy would keep us from stirring up any mischief. To that end, Stormy was paired with Professor Ediltrude of the Department of Astrology and Celestial Phenomena where she seems to be doing well despite her tempestuous nature and her constant confrontations with her mentor. Darcy was first assigned to assisting Professor Mabra do research in the library. However, after a short time, Professor Mabra complained to MissGriffin that Darcy was more a hindrance than a help to her so Miss Griffin re-assigns Darcy to a position at Accounting where she is involved in the complex number-crunching, accounting and records keeping involved in the daily operation of Cloud Tower. Miss Griffin dropped a plum into my lap by assigning me as an assistant professor to Professor Zarathustra of the Department of Ancient Languages and Arcane Magic. The position of assistant professor allowed me limitless access without question to the library and the book vaults and all of the other facilities that are used to gather and disseminate information. I apply myself with vigour to all the assignments that the Professor gives me and time and time again I am able to root out useful information from the most arcane of texts. And don't think that Professor Zarathustra accepts any of my research without thorough scrutiny of every jot and tittle I commit to paper. But my research is rock-solid and withstands even the most severe cross-examinations and acid tests she can devise. Over time, Professor Zarathustra becomes more and more involved with her own research and merely assigns me the subject matter for each class and allows me to lecture in her stead. This I am pleased to do because I am still, first and foremost, a Witch and, despite the current hard feelings against me among my sisters, I care about their education and I am driven to see them succeed. So I push them to excel every chance I get with very positive results.


	2. The Gifts

I come back to my crib one evening and find three black roses and a small, silver box on my pillow. My first thought is that it is a gift from Stormy for our imprisonment and her special needs have reinforced the bond between us over the past few months. Stormy, however, denies all knowledge of it and Darcy just shrugs and looks as bewildered as Stormy and I. I figure then that it must be an anonymous gift from one of my students. I put the roses into a vase and then, curling up on my bed, I open the box and find three dark chocolates inside. For a moment, I suspect poison or some other mischief but a quick revelation spell proves that they are free of any such thing. So I take a careful bite out of the first piece, and – oh, Sisters! – the taste is pure enchantment and exquisite beyond words. Before I realise it, I have eaten all three pieces and I am greedily licking all remnants of chocolate from my fingertips even at risking cutting my tongue on my long nails.

For the next few days, I keep an eye out as I travel the hallways and while I lecture classes for any signs of a secret admirer but find none. Yet, each evening when I return I find another little gift waiting for me: a silver comb, a new tower for my hair, some perfume. Each time both Darcy and Stormy swear to me that they have nothing to do with it.

One evening, another silver box with three black roses shows up again on my pillow. I open the box and once again it contains three dark chocolates.

"Hey!" protests Stormy. "There are three roses, three chocolates and three of us. What makes you think this is all for you? How about sharing?"

So I oblige by giving each of them a rose and a chocolate. I put the rose in a vase on my vanity and curl up on my bed to savour my one piece of chocolate. Again, I experience sensual ecstasy but it is a different reaction from Darcy and Stormy.

"Peee-yech!" gags Stormy. "This tastes worse than reconstituted freeze-dried faerie puke!" Darcy's remark is no kinder as they both spit out what's in their mouths and rush to wash them out with water. The roses I gave them faired no better. In the morning, each of theirs was blighted and falling apart while mine remained as fresh as if it were just snipped from the bush. After that, there are no more arguments about for whom the gifts are intended.

And the gifts do continue to come as mysteriously as before. We can never seem to catch when they appear they just suddenly do. It becomes a game among us to try and figure the nature of the giver.

"Well, I think that it's a guy," says Darcy. "Roses and chocolate are definitely a guy thing."

"But the jewellery suggest a woman," insists Stormy. "And how is a man to get anywhere near here?"

"Have you checked under your bed lately, Icy?" smirks Darcy and we all laugh.

"All you'll find are slippers," I tell her. "Have you checked under your own?"

"Yeah," ribs Stormy. "Is that where you're hiding Riven?"

"No," retaliates Darcy. "I have only some rot-worms in a cage I'm waiting to dump on you both when you least expect it."

"Yeah, dream on!" I tell her.

The next evening, as if in answer to our question, a sheet of parchment, folded and sealed with a single application of unembossed black sealing wax, and one black rose appear on my pillow.

"At last," I think to myself, "my admirer is about to reveal herself."

I open it and read an unsigned poem professing unending love for me and pleading with me to give up my evil ways and return to The Light.

"As if!" I say out loud as my temper begins to boil. "Stormy, Darcy, if this is your idea of a prank it has now stopped being fun or amusing," I rage at them.

"No way is it us!" protests Darcy. "Give it here. Maybe I can recognise from whom it is from."

I hand the parchment to Darcy who looks at it and frowns.

"You can make sense of this cat scratching?" asks Darcy. "It's not even Witchspeak, Alfean or any other language that I know of for that matter.

"If it's not Witchspeak, then it is definitely not from me," adds Stormy crossing her arms and sulking.

"Let me see it," I say angrily taking back the piece of parchment.

Of course I understand this! It's in Italian! I read it aloud and realise that it is not only Italian but _my_ dialect of Italian almost to the doorstep of my home. It is poetry like my mother once wrote. By the Tree! It has been seven years now since I've uttered a single syllable of it.

This cuts deeply and I feel myself trembling inside. Even without understanding a word, both Darcy and Stormy feel their emotive power.

"Whoa!" exclaims Stormy. "This is some seriously heavy stuff. What does it mean?"

"Never mind," I tell her turning away my face.

That night, I dream of my dead mother. When I wake up, my eyes and cheeks are moist and there is a wet spot on my pillow.

"No way is this happening," I tell myself as I quickly wash, dress and head off to Professor Zarathustra's office to pick up the day's class agenda.


	3. Witches:  Mother and Daughter

When I arrive back at my crib that evening, I find another gift waiting for me on my pillow. This time it is a jewel encrusted sphere made of fine gold filament that I can hide in my hand. I notice that it is filled with something that, when I sniff it, it fills me with memories of home – not here on the Planet Alfea but on Terra – and a feeling of terrible homesickness. For some reason, I spin the sphere on the tip of my fingernail and, as it spins, it flashes and I am drawn into its trance.

I am a four-year old child in my home village in Italy. My name is Ishandra as is my mother's. It is an ancient name derived from the phrase_ Isha E'andra _which means "wise woman" in a long dead language. The villagers, however, find it too difficult to call me "Little Ishandra" to distinguish me from my mother so they call me "Isha" which, strangely enough, is the element from my mother's name that means "woman". My father is an English sea captain and owner of three ships that sail the world in search of the odd and the unusual which are sold in our village's market. His ships are famous and collectively known in England as "TheTrio" and in our home port in Italy as "LeTrix". There is the large, double-hulled Icy that has sailed the frigid waters from the Arctic to the Antarctic. Darcy is the dark one. She is a smaller ship built for speed rather than cargo space with sleek black lines and a pitch-black hull. She glides into dangerous ports to take on small but precious cargoes and to sail them swiftly and safely back to our port in Italy often hotly pursued by pirate and brigand ships lusting for the treasures she holds. Often these pursuing ships would sail straight into the muzzles of the heavy shore batteries of our port that spew a deadly cross-fire of chained shot, canister, grenades and shrapnel at any invading ships. Finally, there is Stormy. Perhaps the bravest of the three, Stormy is famous far and wide for her many dangerous voyages around the Horn of Africa and her daring voyages to the New World. No matter which of his three ships my father sails, his voyages leave my mother and I on our own for much of the year, however, we are well provided for and we live comfortably in one of the richest and well-furnished houses in our village.

My Italian mother is considered a beauty in our village. She is tall and slender but still winsome with her jet-black tresses, dark brown eyes and Mediterranean olive skin. I am her image in miniature except for the angularity of my face which is a trait from my father and his family.

This day, I am standing beside my mother holding her hand while she talks to the owner of a fruit stall. I am hungry and want to ask her to give me something to eat but I behave as she has taught me and remain silent while she continues to talk. Then I spy a juicy, red apple perched on top of a pile of other apples. I hold out my hand and thinking of my hunger I bid the apple to come to me and as I do it lifts itself from the top of the pile and floats into my waiting hand. Both my mother and the fruit stall owner witness my little feat. The fruit stall owner looks shocked and as if she is about to scream but my mother makes quick and subtle gesture with her hand and then she is smiling benignly at my mother as she drops coins into her hand the incident seemingly banished from her mind.

"Sweet child," she tells my mother as I happily munch on my prize apple.

"Thank you," replies my mother and smiles. She then grabs my hand so tightly that I almost cry out and departs quickly from the fruit stall.

The walk home that day is not our usual casual, chatty stroll but a quick silent march. I become fearful as I become more and more certain that a spanking is awaiting me at home for taking the apple without asking. Imagine my surprise when we get inside and my mother bolts the door then she sweeps me up and hugs me.

"Isha! That was marvellous!" she whispers with pride gleaming in her eyes. "That was your first feat of levitation and telekinesis. I'm so proud of you!"

But then her expression becomes so serious and she frowns and I, fearing that I was still in store for a sound spanking, burst into tears. "I'm sorry, Mamma!" I blubber, the tears falling from my eyes. "I was so hungry and the apple was there so I wished for it in my mind. I didn't know that it would come to me, honest," I beseech her crying even harder.

"No, no, Isha!" replies my mother with tears in her own eyes and holding me even closer to her. _"Calma ti!_ Don't fret about the apple. I know you are my precious little girl who would never steal anything. What happened at the fruit stall was a surprise even for me. I didn't know you had the power. Don't cry, Isha. Mamma is not angry with you."

After a few minutes, I do stop crying but my mother still has that serious look on her face. "Ishandra, listen to me," says my mother, her voice quiet and very serious. "There is something I need to tell you that you must listen to and swear to obey for the rest of your life."

"What is it, Mamma?" I ask feeling fearful again.

"Isha," continues my mother, "you must never do what you did at the market again without my supervision but, and more importantly, never, ever in front of other people – not even your father. Do you understand me, Ishandra?"

"But why, Mamma?" I ask feeling disappointed that I couldn't show Babbo when he got home.

"Isha, my sweet, we come from a long line of women with special talents and powers most other women of the world have not developed," she gently explains to me. "Most other women and especially all men are in fear of our special powers. They fear that our powers come from evil sources. They don't but people don't want to hear about it. They would rather believe the horrible myths and terrible lies that have been created about us than believe that there are natural forces they cannot see but which we can manipulate with our minds to do fantastic things. To them it is all 'black magic' and they fear it and will destroy anyone they believe possesses it – even a little girl and her mother."

"But Babbo?" I ask my mother in great disbelief. "Babbo would never harm or try to destroy us if he knew, would he?"

"No, Isha," replies my mother tenderly. "Babbo would still love us and would do all he could to defend his wife and his little girl even if he knew our secrets. Babbo is very enlightened for a man but we must keep him from knowing things about us that could put his life in great danger as well as ours. Do you understand, Ishandra? Babbo must never, ever know of our powers."

My mother, unlike most of the village women, is literate and true to her name she has an insatiable thirst for knowledge. My father encourages her to learn and on his voyages, he makes it a point to find books, scrolls and manuscripts to bring back to her on every subject and in every language imaginable. Through her studies, my mother becomes an expert in handling and investing money. My father soon entrusts her with all his land-based trade. Often times, while he is a sea, she has not only managed the sale of his cargoes but has reinvested a portion of the money from this into worthwhile projects within the village. In this manner, upon his return from sea, my father finds his profits increased by a full third or even a half. He, in turn, lavishes my mother with endless praise, admiration and all the love that he as a man is able to give her to which she responds like a flower in sunlight.

I inherit my mother's thirst for learning and from my father I learn English, map reading and the names of all the stars in our sky and how to tell time and navigate by them. From my mother I learn the subtleties of educated Italian and read from all the great writers and thinkers of our country. Together we learn Latin and Greek and all the important languages of commerce such as Dutch, Spanish, Portuguese and Arabic. Of these languages my favourite is Arabic because it is so unlike the others with its gracefully flowing right-to-left script and its way of describing the world and its mysteries in a way that cannot be approached by other languages. When I turn twelve, I find that there is fair amount that can be made by waiting on the docks for the ships from Egypt, Morocco and Arabia. The sailors, who are largely illiterate and homesick, are so surprised to find in Italy this beautiful, unveiled girl who is so much like them and yet so different yet who can speak, read and write their language as if she were born knowing it. At first, there is great resistance to the idea of having me, a bold-faced, unveiled girl, speak for them but I quickly prove my value to them and soon the captains of these ships pay me with gold and silver coins to interpret for them and help them negotiate deals for their cargoes on shore. Often, for their cargoes, I negotiate the trade of items from my father's ships that sail waters that their ships can't or won't for items from where their ships go and ours don't. The items we trade them, they sell as rare commodities at their own far-off ports of call for ten and twenty times what they originally paid and we sell their goods at our ports of trade at the same increase and we all prosper. The common sailors pay me still more gold and silver coins to read and write letters from and to family, wives, sweethearts and friends and sometimes just to recite poetry and stories to them in the classical manner from their own lands.


	4. The Faeries

The sphere continues to spin holding me captive as I relive my past.

I am now eight years old and my powers are increasing. I have learned that not only can I lift and move objects around but also myself and I practice flying about the house but only when just my mother and I are there and the windows are shuttered. My mother helps me hone my skills but all is done quietly and in secret.

As time goes on, I learn how to bend light to see around corners and make visible objects that normally the human eye cannot see. It is then I begin to see them. At first I think that they are just little girls as I am but then I notice how graceful and slender they are. Then, I see them fly – with wings! Some are like butterfly wings, some like dragonfly wings and some like large moth wings.

Shortly after I begin seeing them, a trio of them appears in my house in a room where I too am allowed to fly. I watch them flying around and playing and singing and dancing and I clap my hands excitedly for joy.

I fly to them and cry, "See, I can fly too! Let me come play with you."

They catch sight of me as I float towards them and realising that I can truly see them they begin to panic.

"Witch!" they shriek. "Horrible, wicked witch!"

"I'm not a witch," I insist, "and I'm not wicked. I'm a good girl. My mother says so!"

I try to approach one with bluish hair and dragonfly wings pleading with her to be my friend and to come play with me. She, however, flies backwards, trying to avoid me, her face a mask of fear. In her panicked flight, she slams backwards into the wall and then she falls crumpling onto the floor like a rag doll.

"Horrible witch!" cry her companions as they fly to her side, pick her up and fly with her out the window. "Horrible, wicked witch!" they cry again as they disappear.

Heartbroken, I fall to the floor, bury my face in my hands and weep.

My mother is suddenly in the room and rushes to me when she sees me crying on the floor.

"What's happened, Isha? Did you fall?" she asks taking me into her arms.

"No," I sob throwing my arms around her neck and trying to wrap her long hair around me.

"Oh, what's the matter, Isha?" she asks tenderly.

"There were some little girls here, Mamma," I tell her, "but they would not play with me."

"What little girls?" she asks concerned.

I tell her of the trio of little girls that was in the house who could fly as I could but only with wings. I tell her of the girl with the bluish hair and the dragonfly wings who hurt herself trying to fly away from me and of the nasty things her companions called me as they all flew away.

"Those were Faeries, Isha," my mother tells me as she dries my tears with her apron and goes on to explain what Faeries are to me.

"But why were they so afraid of me, Mamma?" I ask, the tears welling in my eyes once more. "And why did they fly away and say those mean things about me? I'm not a horrible witch or wicked, am I?" I ask burying my face in her neck and sobbing.

"No, Isha, you are not horrible, wicked or evil… but you are a Witch. You are a Witch as am I and as was my mother and her mother back and back to the First Witches."

"But we help people and use our powers secretly to do good. We are not like those wicked Witches that the villagers talk about," I sob.

"Yes, Isha, we are good Witches and we do use our powers to help people. But, sadly, there are wicked Witches too who use their powers to do unspeakable harm and evil to Humans and Faeries and other living creatures." Then with the light of sadness in her eyes, my mother continues, "Their victims are right to remember them and be afraid but in doing so they have forgotten about those of us who are good and think of us all as being evil whether we are or not."

It was then that I learned the truth behind my bitter-sweet lot in life to be blessed with powers but cursed if I used them.

"You know something?" asks my mother smiling.

"What?" I ask, a smile coming to my lips despite the last few tears trickling down my cheeks.

"Not even I had Faeries come to me when I was a little girl. It is said that they appear only where there is powerful presence of goodness and especially the goodness of children to draw them. Now, it seems to me that there is only one good child in this house and she is the one I'm holding right here," she says hugging me tightly. "I think they are going to be back."

One of them, but not her companions, did come back and she became my companion over the years. She was the one with bluish hair and dragonfly wings who had hurt herself the first day. For the first little while, she did not come near our house but she would catch up with me when I was off to the market or the docks and would fly about me. Whenever I looked her way though, she would find a place to hide but still I could see her peering suspiciously at me around the corner of wherever she was. By and by, the four-stroke beat of her wings became so familiar to me that I did not even have to bend the light to know she was there.

I tell my mother that the Faerie with the bluish hair and dragonfly wings is back and that she is always flying about.

"I told you they'd be back," she laughs sharing my joy. But when I tell her that she hides every time I look her way my mother replies, "She is probably confused, Ishandra. She senses the goodness within you that forms a bond between you two but she still cannot cope with you being a Witch. Just be patient with her and be on your best behaviour and she'll come around. Little step by little step, Isha."

I follow my mother's advice and work hard at being good until one sweltering summer day I am sitting on a chair in front of an open window doing needlepoint when I hear the familiar thrum of dragonfly wings and there she is. She lights on the wide window ledge and sits with her legs bent under her but when I try to approach her, she flies quickly out of the window. This time, however, she does not fly away but remains hovering in front of the window well beyond arm's reach. Fearing that she could hurt herself again, I approach no further.

"You are a strange one," I tell her and go back to my chair and my needlework. As I do so, she flies back and retakes her position on the window ledge.

"What is you name? You must have a name," I ask her.

I watch her as her mouth seems to open and close and she makes gestures with her hands but I hear nothing so I try again.

"I am Ishandra but my friends just call me Isha," I tell her and then with my finger I point to myself and repeat, "Isha," several times. She likewise points to herself but even though her mouth moves, I hear nothing.

"No voice?" I ask her. "But I'm sure I heard you singing and laughing with your companions or did my ears deceive me?"

It was then and there I decided to call her Muta – the silent one. But whether she was mute or not there was no way that Muta was deaf because she heard my mother's approaching steps before I did and was out the window and gone before my mother's hand touched the doorknob.

The weeks of early summer pass and Muta makes regular visits to my home and to my window ledge. Sometimes we share fruit, raw vegetables, berries and cool fruit juices. It is still a strange relationship because I cannot get her to come into the room beyond the window ledge and she is still quick to drop anything and fly out the window when I approach too close to her. After a time, I find the boundary of her personal space and when I show respect for it, she begins to relax. Still, one thing I never saw during our entire relationship was her smile nor did I ever see or hear her laugh.


	5. The Wounded Faerie and Bonding

The late summer rainy season comes down upon us with a vengeance that year. The mornings are hot and steamy and in the afternoons and evenings we are drenched with heavy downpours of rain. The winds are also kicking up high waves outside the shelter of our port so many ships decide to remain at anchor here rather than venture out. Of my father's ships, only The Darcy is here at anchor. My father is several months out on The Icy. The Stormy is also on the high seas on her way to The New World. At such times my mother and I make fervent prayers to the Heavens for my father's protection and also for the other ships and their crews at sea.

It is late evening on a particularly stormy day. I am sitting in the sewing room working on needlepoint buy lamplight. The window of the room is shuttered to keep out the driving rain. My attention to needlepoint is suddenly interrupted by tapping on the shutters that is neither the rain nor branches. Carefully, I open the shutters and see a four-winged figure hovering in the downpour outside the window. I stand back and Muta flies in and takes up her station on the dark window ledge. The wind, however, is catching the shutters and banging them dangerously against the window.

"Come in, Muta," I tell her. I approach her with my hand out in invitation but she flits speedily out of the window and hovers once more in the downpour. "Will you stop being silly and come in out of the rain!" I plead with her but she refuses while I am still standing at the window. As I step back once more into the room, Muta lights on the window ledge and attempts to take up station there again.

"No, you can't stay on the ledge," I tell her with no effect. A plan then dawns on me. I move back all the furniture clearing half of the floor. I go to my room and come back with a piece of bright blue street chalk and draw a line down the middle of the floor dividing the room in half.

"I will stay on this side of the room," I tell her and pantomime an invisible wall where the blue line is. My side is Witch turf and that side is Faerie turf and again I pantomime myself being dragged by the ear from her side of the room to my side. She accepts that and enters into the room and I pantomime to her to close the shutters which she does but refuses to lock them.

"See? That's not so bad, is it?" I ask her as I go to fetch the lamp to better see her.

"You must be soaking wet…" I begin while turning with the lamp in my hand and then gasp when the light falls on her bruised face, a cut lip and a puffy nose that must have been bleeding. She turns slightly away from me and I can see bruises along the length of her legs and arms and also on her knuckles. I know only too well from having seen the victims of press gangs and wharf-side thugs that she had been ganged up on and beaten but the abrasions on her knuckles show how she fought back her attackers to make her escape.

"Who did this to you?" I demand but she only stares at me morosely with her eyes full of accusation.

"What happened?" I ask more gently. This time, she points to me and to herself as her head droops and her shoulders shudder.

"Your comrades did this to you because of me, didn't they? What? Did they first pat you on the back and congratulate you for finding and bonding a good girl then turn around, beat you up and kick you out of the Royal Circle of Faeries because I'm a Witch? That's so unfair, Muta."

Hurriedly, I run to the room where we keep our bandages and medicines seeking a bowl some clean bandage and ointments for her wounds. My mother hears me rummaging about and enters the room.

"What are you doing in here, Isha?" asks my mother.

"It's Muta," I tell her. "She's back and she's hurt."

"What! Was she attacked by wolves or dogs? How badly is she hurt?" she asks shocked at the news.

"No, not wolves or dogs, Mamma," I tell her, "I think her comrades did it. I think they beat her up and kicked her out of their shelter for bonding with me and because I'm a Witch," and despite an effort to be brave, my voice breaks and the tears trickle down my cheeks. "Mamma, I think she has come here because she has nowhere else to go. It's all my fault!"

"No, Isha, it's not your fault," says my mother sternly. "It's Muta's comrades who are going to have to learn to accept you for what you are and accept that you are good. Muta's in the sewing room? Good, let's go to her and see what we can do for her."

"No, Mamma," I plead. "I just got her to come into the room beyond the window ledge. She is still more skittish than a filly during the full moon. If we both go in she may bolt and try to escape and hurt herself again. She seems to trust me somewhat more now. Please, let me just go to her alone."

"Fine," replies my mother, "but leave the door slightly open. I will remain here but I will bend the light so I can watch you."

I remember that Muta needed dry clothes so together my mother and I search through drawers and closets to find something. We find an old dress of mine with an open back which would easily cover her and still accommodate her wings. When I get back to the sewing room, she is already out of her wet dress and is using it to wipe herself down. Even in the half light and despite her body being covered with bruises it is hard to ignore how firm and compact she is. Every inch of her is sleek, trim muscle and for the first time I am able to clearly see the array of powerful muscles down her back that drive her wings at the fantastic speeds required for flight. I set down the bowl, the bandages and medicines and toss her the dress. As she turns around to catch it, I see the well-cut muscles of her abdomen. Such developed muscles I have seen only on young sailors who have spent several years on the high seas doing strenuous tasks and working the sails and riggings of the tall-masted ships. Only one other woman I know has such a physique. That woman is my mother. "I, too, will have such a physique," I promise myself.

Muta slips on the dry dress, ties up the top around her neck, pats out the wrinkles and fancies herself to be quite the little lady.

"You must be hungry?" I ask to which she responds by miming putting food in her mouth and then rubbing her heart.

I run down the three flights of stairs to the kitchen where my mother is already preparing a platter of fresh fruit, raw vegetables, nuts, berries and seeds. I bring the platter upstairs to the sewing room and set it down where Muta and I had months before established as our common space. But still, there is a ritual we worked out together. When Muta wanted to take from the platter, she first made a gesture like she was praying. I would make a gesture spreading my hands with palms up and moving them in a slight arc from my sides. She would then take from the platter what she wanted and then touch her forehead nodding slightly. When I wanted something, I would follow the same ritual. Usually when she ate it was with finesse taking little bites, chewing them thoughtfully and then swallowing. This evening, however, the ritual is barely observed as she first grabs a bunch of grapes and crams them into her mouth with her jaws working at a fantastic rate. It is then that I begin to realise that the entire cluster of grapes is going into her mouth but nothing is coming out – not skins, not seeds, not vines. Then I see the grape leaves that are the decoration upon which the grapes were sitting going into her mouth to be rapidly chewed and swallowed.

"Muta, you little pig!" I exclaim.

Next is half a pomegranate with its tough outer skin, seeds and pips followed closely by an entire lemon with its peel and seeds that vanish into her mouth to be masticated and swallowed. Her jaws are working so rapidly that her cut lip and nose begin to bleed but it does not stop her from gorging as she wipes the gore from her nose and lip with the back of her hand, licks it off and then makes a grab for more from the platter. At that moment, I lose my appetite but I am too fascinated to turn away as she grabs the bowl of sunflower seeds and wolfs them all down shells and all. I think she has reached the height of gross as she dunks her hand into the bowl of liquid honey which was meant for the oranges and lemons but then laps up each handful so quickly that not even a drop hits the floor or her dress. She has the bowl tipped almost over her head as she licks the bottom for what remains and then, with the bowl still in her hand, she spies the woven straw mat which was under the bowl, snatches it up and before I can protest has it in her mouth, chewed and swallowed. …And then she belches.

"Would Mademoiselle Muta like some fine wine to wash that down?" I ask sarcastically.

"Yes, Mademoiselle Muta definitely wants something to drink," she pantomimes.

I get up and go to the table where there is a pitcher that is usually filled with water and some glasses. The pitcher is empty. I stand there for a moment trying to decide whether it would be faster to search the other rooms on this floor for a pitcher that might still be full or go down three flights of stairs to kitchen to refill the one in hand when I hear tapping. I turn to see Muta rapping on the floor then pantomiming desperately for something to drink and rubbing her abdomen.

"Awww, Muta's got a bellyache? Serves you right, you little glutton!" I tell her angrily. "Don't look at me for sympathy."

Muta looks back at me with a "What have I done wrong now?" expression on her face and pantomimes even more emphatically for something to drink.

"Fine, I'll get you some water," I tell her but I first slide an empty chamber pot over to her side of the room praying that if she were going to be sick she'd know what it is for and then I head quickly out the door.

Just as I reach the first flight of stairs, I meet my mother coming up holding two goblets in her hands.

"Has our guest eaten her fill?" she asks.

"Yes!" I tell her a little more testily than intended. "Mamma, it was totally disgusting the way she was grabbing everything from off of the platter and cramming it into her mouth."

"It is to be expected," replies my mother matter-of-factly. "There is not much good foraging left for a Faerie from now until after the rains and her comrades probably kept beating her up and chasing her away from anything they have stored. No doubt it is near starvation that brings her here as much as the need for attention and shelter from the rain."

"How do you know all this?" I ask her not understanding how she could suddenly be such an authority on Faeries.

"I'll explain later," she says handing me one of the goblets that contain deep mauve grape juice. Then taking the pitcher from my other hand continues, "I'll fill this from the kitchen, meanwhile give Muta this," and she presses the other goblet of grape juice into my freed hand.

Goblets in hand, I head back to the sewing room feeling a little more sympathetic. Muta's standing almost on the line dividing the room in expectation as I enter. Again, our ritual is barely observed as I set down the goblet that my mother has indicated is for her on the floor. She snatches it up, and although never so much as smiling, shows her delight in finding it filled with grape juice rather than just water by an excited flutter of her wings. The grape juice vanishes with a little less haste and a little more decorum than the food but soon enough she has the goblet upside-down catching every last drop on her tongue as she drains it to even the dregs. She sets the goblet down on the floor, stretches, yawns and looks at me like a sailor after an all-night bender and then the surface of her wings goes slack like sails that have lost the wind. The yardarms of her wings fold in two and the whole assembly collapses compactly down her back and sides. Then over Muta goes keeling over on her side onto the bare floor and, curling up like a newborn, she surrenders to sleep. After a few moments, my mother enters the room with a fresh pitcher of water and a rolled-up cloth mat.

"I put a draught of sleeping potion in her juice," says my mother in a normal voice. "She will remain asleep until at least mid-morning. Let's make her comfortable and then I will have a look at her."

My mother rolls out the mat on the floor and together we move Muta onto it. My mother first examines her limbs, fingers and toes making special note of the abrasions on her knuckles.

"Nothing broken which is good," she states. "The long bones of her limbs house the special organs required to direct magic," she adds noting my inquisitive expression. "If a Faerie's limbs become bent, broken, badly healed or diseased then she is pretty much unable to cast any spells."

Out of curiosity, I put my ear against Muta's chest expecting to hear her heart but hear only wind and sloshing.

"That's her first stomach and her lungs you have your ear against," says my mother when I don't seem able to fathom what I'm hearing. "Isha, Faeries only look human but are nothing like us except that there are males and females and that they give live birth to offspring that the females suckle for a time. Other than that, they are an entirely different kind of creature."

"She has two stomachs?" I ask, my eyes wide with curiosity. "What else?"

"Muta has two stomachs, two sets of teeth..."

"Like baby and adult teeth, Mamma?"

"No, her teeth grow continuously and larger as she matures but she has two sets of teeth one behind the other."

My mother carefully opens Muta's mouth and brings the lamp near for me to see. As I peer into Muta's mouth I see the first set of teeth that resembles a row of alternating chisels and spikes. Behind them is a ridge of flattish teeth with grooved tops and a pebbled texture.

"The first set chops and shreds while the second set smashes and grinds."

"But why does Muta need two stomachs?"

"Faeries are vegetarians" explains my mother, "except for the odd insect that is eaten more by accident than by design. The first stomach does for Muta what cooking our food does for us. Some say that the food is just softened in the first stomach for the second stomach to be able to digest it. Others say that Faeries don't directly digest what is in the first stomach at all but other creatures in the first stomach break down and digest the plant matter and then the second stomach separates this creature filled broth from the plant matter and digests them as the real Faerie food. However it is done, it is highly efficient because whatever is left and expelled from the body is so depleted that it can't even be used for fertiliser."

"Well, if that is her first stomach, where then is her heart?"

"She does not have a single heart but an array of six."

"Six!" I exclaim. "But how?"

"They run parallel to her spine," explains my mother. "There is a pair for the upper body, a larger pair directly connected to the lungs and flight muscles and another pair just about where our kidneys are. If you feel carefully down her back, you might feel them beating."

"May I try?" I ask.

"Sure" says my mother, "but first I have to clean her wounds. I want you to hold her head steady while I do this. The medicine I need to use is effective but it is strong-smelling and packs quite a sting. She may put up a fight as I apply it."

I hold Muta's head steady but as my mother brings the medicine soaked cloth near her nose Muta pulls back her head and sneezes. The wound on her lip opens again and I have to wipe up the ooze with a clean cloth. In the process, I get her blood on my hands. Her blood is red but that is where the similarity ends. I feel it between my fingers and note that it is as thick as heavy olive oil and smells very sweet like treacle that Babbo so loves to eat with bread.

"This stuff is almost like glue," I tell my mother. "No wonder it takes six hearts to pump it."

"It is also the fluid she uses to inflate her wings."

We try again to clean Muta's wounds. This time I'm on my knees, her head is on my lap and I have my arm around her neck and under her chin to hold her steady. My mother brings the cloth close and even I can smell the sharp fumes of the medicine on it. Muta struggles as my mother cleans her wounds but in a few minutes the job is done.

"That seems to be the worst of it," she says as she recaps the medicines and puts the soiled cloths into the bowl. "I have some lotion here for the rest of her body."

I shift Muta's head and shoulders from off of my lap back onto the mat and find my lap covered with what looks like flaky powder. "What is this?" I ask.

"It's Faerie dust," says my mother.

"Is it magic?"

"No," replies my mother. "At least not as most people understand it. It is actually dead skin mixed with powerful secretions that sloughs off of her wings. But applied to a wound, it will prevent it from festering and speeds healing. If she did not have these secretions to protect her wings, they would be attacked by moulds, fungi and parasites that seek to feed on her blood."

My mother and I quietly rub lotion on Muta's body as I contemplate what I have just learned. Two sets of teeth that can shred and mulch almost any type of vegetable matter, a double stomach to digest it, blood like sap that also inflates her wings, an array of six hearts to pump it, almost magical secretions that protect her wings, the ability to cast magic and a hard body that is to be envied.

"She's something amazing, isn't she, Mamma?" I whisper. "She's certainly not the soft pushover most people think Faeries are, is she?"

"Yes, she is amazing," agrees my mother, "and so is your special relationship with her. It is something that you should protect and cherish for the rest of your life."

"I will, Mamma," I promise.

I lean over and touch my forehead to Muta's and my mind is flooded with thousands of images. The last image is that of me standing in front of the window with my hand extended in invitation. Then, from deep inside of me is aroused an emotion I never knew that I had that stirs and awakens with an aching longing.

__


	6. Morning Breaks

__

_The dawn finds us embracing –  
Dressed in passionate caresses.  
You take my hand. I follow you.  
I present myself to the world with you._

So the song goes and so it is as the light of daybreak falls upon my eyes and awakens me and finds Muta and I in each other's embrace still on the mat where my mother had left us after our forehead-to-forehead experience. I disentangle myself from Muta's arms with a searing pain from deep within me as I remember the final stanza of that song.

_Ne'er again will there be such a sunset  
For you… for me.  
_

For, barely has the new entity, borne of our touching, begun its life when forces beyond either Muta or me callously cleave it in twain and command each half to live life apart. Had she known this all the long? Is this why she did not want me approaching her too closely or touching her?

I arise, go to my room, wash and put on a clean dress. I head down to the kitchen where my mother is preparing a fresh platter of fruit, raw vegetables, seeds and nuts. She looks up from her work and notes my expression as I enter the kitchen.

"You dreamfasted with Muta last night," my mother tells me even before I realise what I want to ask her. "You both shared images of your lives with each other. You got hers and she got yours. It is part of the bonding process."

"But I feel something else deep inside me that is like a searing emotional pain," I tell her.

"I can't really tell you why, Isha," responds my mother. "I have never experienced bonding or dreamfasting with a Faerie such as you have. As I told you, you have a special relationship with Muta that is rare and very precious."

"But why does it have to hurt, Mamma?" I ask as I describe the new feeling that has awoken within me.

"I don't know why, Isha, but what you describe is something akin to what I feel when Babbo is gone for such a long time at sea and I long for him and worry for his safety. It is the burden of being a woman in love. It is what happens when the lives of two people become entwined one with the other. It could also be part of how Muta feels for she has been cut off from her own kind and bonded with you. Ask Muta. Maybe she can explain it to you now. Your dreamfasting may have opened a new channel of communication."

For the moment, I accept that but wonder why if falling in love brings so much pain why all the girls my age in the village yearn for it so. "No, I will never fall in love with a man," I tell myself. "If it is more of what I'm feeling now, it will be too much for me to bear. I want no part of it."

"How do you know all this stuff about Faeries?" I ask my mother.

"There is a body of common knowledge that we as Witches all inherit," she explains, "but you are not yet of an age that you can access it. Faeries and Witches have interacted with each other for countless centuries and generations so they have become part of this common body of information. Much of what I told you about Muta last night comes from this body of knowledge. In time you will have access too."

With that, my mother picks up the platter and the two of us head up the stairs to the sewing room. We find Muta still deep in slumber on the mat. I want to lift Muta off the mat and put her back on floor so she would not know that we have been touching her and possibly upsetting her. My mother, however, says that Muta already knows what we have been doing and any attempt at deception would upset her more than leaving her on the mat. So she places the platter on the blue dividing chalk line and after putting some cushions on the floor we both sit down and wait for Muta to awake.

I feel my stomach go tight with anticipation as Muta's body begins to stir as she awakens. My mother somehow senses my tension and covers my hand with hers. Muta sits up and opens her eyes looking confused and disoriented. I keep myself steady but expect at any time to see Muta bolt for the window with her wings not yet unfurled. Instead, she quietly looks around and then at my mother and I and I can almost feel her matching up mother with daughter in her mind and accepting it. She then stands up and twists at the waist a few times. Next are some knee bends followed by some toe touching and then she bends backwards a few times and amazingly nearly touches the floor with the top of her head. Then she smooths down her dress shaking off some Faerie dust, combs her blue hair with her fingers and then unfurls her wings and flutters them creating a rather pleasant breeze and shedding more Faerie dust. Muta sits cross-legged on the mat and regards my mother who puts her hands together as in prayer and nods before her. Muta does likewise. Muta then turns to me and begins the same ritual. I begin to respond likewise but then Muta lifts up her head and what I see makes me want to bolt and run out the door. I stare into eyes that are no longer human sized but enormous saucers. I feel panic building inside me but my mother takes me by the shoulders and whispers to me that everything is all right. I am being pulled into those enormous dark blue eyes and overwhelmed by thousands of images and emotions. I somehow feel that Muta is pleased and happy but the overriding emotion is that of gratefulness and the hurting feeling deep within me mutates to one of ecstasy.

I blink and Muta's eyes are suddenly normal. The three of us share breakfast from the platter of food. Muta's ritual is observed as we eat and I notice that she continues to consume everything she takes in its entirety, however, the atmosphere becomes one of relaxed warmth and serenity among us. My heart is beating rapidly but happily and the feeling within me is like a low glow. When breakfast is finished, Muta goes to the window and flies off.


	7. Companions

My mother and I are cleaning up the sewing room. We arrange the furniture so to give Muta a set of drawers on her side of the room in which to put her stuff. We decide to leave the mat there rolled up and standing in a corner for Muta's use. I find Muta's discarded dress balled and thrown into a corner of the room. I pick it up and for some reason I sniff at it and find it permeated with the scent of wild flowers and something I can only described as Muta's scent. Her dress, about which neither Darcy nor Stormy know, is something I have kept even to this day. When I was searching for a hiding place in our crib to store it, Cloud Tower itself seemed to know of its significance to me and created a secret hiding place within its walls to keep and preserve it. I feared that if it is indeed Cloud Tower that has taken revenge against the three of us by keeping us captive for trying to capture its heart and for the stealing its part of The Codex, it would have destroyed Muta's dress but even until the day I created my own ice palace, it preserved Muta's dress for me. We have been parted Muta and I for almost nine years now but the aching longing she planted deep within me is still there and when it becomes overwhelming, I take out that dress to sniff at and hold it next to me and for a time the ache subsides.

Muta and I would continue to be together for several more years. They would be joyful, fun-filled years filled with exploring and adventure.

One of our discoveries is a gigantic cave in the forest near the village into which its natural opening makes it impossible for humans or any large animals to enter but proves to be no obstacle for a curious young Witch endowed with the power of flight and her Faerie companion. We quickly claim it as our own and set up housekeeping. After a few days of cleaning the inside of leaves and other detritus and debris we soon have it established as respectable living quarters. But even in this seclusion, Muta establishes – and without compromise – where within the cave is Faerie turf and were is Witch turf. I accept it with sorrow for I had thought that here at least she would relent and relax her "touch-me-not" rules. We continue to trade images with each other but the lack of verbal communication I find frustrating almost to the point of bringing me to tears.

Over the next few weeks we continue to customise our living spaces within the cave. I bring in candles, candlesticks, blankets, mats and pillows but Muta prefers to cover her area with sweet-smelling grasses, flower petals and soft moss. I collect stones and build a circular fire pit with her co-operation setting its diameter on the boundary of our two turfs. I fill the centre with kindling and wood and set it ablaze with a flint, steel and tinderbox.

Fire, I learn, is known to Faeries but the knowledge of how to make it appears to be unknown to them. Until now, Muta has never witnessed me or my mother starting a fire with a flint and a striking iron so when I suddenly produce it seemingly from nothing, she sits there in wide-eyed awe. The next time I set the fire, I make sure I have her attention as I use the flint and steel to set fire to a mound of punk in the tinderbox and then transfer the blazing contents of the tinderbox onto the kindling within the fire pit which in turn sets fire to the stacked logs. The following day, I allow Muta to take the flint, steel and tinderbox and make fire on her own. After a few attempts, she manages to set the punk ablaze and then deftly transfer it to the kindling within the fire pit. She never smiles but the feeling I perceive from her is one of pride and satisfaction.

Muta and I explore our cave and discover that from the main cave are a number of lesser caves. To our joy, we discover that one of them is lined with luminous mosses and contains within it a warm waterfall and a pool of warm water below. I sniff carefully at a handful of water as my father has taught me and find that, although it is pleasantly warm, it is sweet and fresh. I reason that the pool must empty out somewhere and be constantly refilled from the falls. Within a minute of declaring the water safe in my mind, Muta has her wings folded and plunges into the water. I follow right after and we both splash and luxuriate in its warmth.

On the second day after our discovery of the heated pool, we are surprised while wading by a school of hundreds of small, luminous white fish that invades our pool and begins to swim in dizzying circles about us. My father's training surfaces once more in my mind and I swim hastily to the edge and out of the water. Both Muta and I are on the edge and looking into the pool where the luminous fish continue to do their aquatic dance. My father's warnings about large schools of tiny fish and especially of the small piranhas with razor sharp teeth that can strip a man to bare bones within seconds snap into my mind. Muta catches my thoughts then looks at me with an astonished "You've got to be kidding me!" look in her eyes, wraps her arms about herself and shivers. The fish, however, prove to be harmless as I gingerly stick my hand into the water and have it only caressed lightly by their luminous flanks and my fingers nibbled at with mild curiosity by toothless mouths. The next day, I bring some dried bread and crumple it into the water and Muta and I enjoy the circus put on by the fish as they contend with each other for every morsel that hits the surface.

We had planned a day of fun and adventure but a sudden heavy downpour sends us scurrying and soaked to the bone for our cave. We light a fire to dry ourselves. Muta has untied her hair to speed drying. She now wears it short leaving only enough to have bangs in front and two stubby pigtails – one on each side – matching somewhat my father's description of the ladies from far away Cathay. Muta is sitting in front of the fire on Faerie turf with her legs crossed and her eyes closed as if she were sleeping sitting up. She has thrown some resinous branches into the fire which burn rapidly and fill the air with a pungent fragrance as her wings beat slowly circulating it around us and causing the fire to ebb and flow like gentle waves. I am sitting at the opposite side of the fire on Witch turf bored and upset about the rotten weather and that Muta has chosen just this moment to withdraw into her own little world and leave me virtually alone in this vast chamber.

I try to relax as Muta is doing. I cross my legs, look into the pulsing fire and breathe deeply. But the pungent aroma of the burning resin is not allowing me to relax. On the contrary, it has my mind wide awake and alert and screaming for some constructive something to busy itself with. I am wishing for the ten thousandth time today that Muta had some form of spoken language through which we could truly communicate with each other. Even my every attempt to create some form of sign language with her failed either because she cannot grasp the concept of talking with one's hands or because she just stubbornly and flatly refuses to do it. I breathe deeply again of the scented air, look into the pulsing flames and with my mind still grousing over the lack of communication close my eyes and dream.

I am a four-year old child holding my mother's hand as she talks with the owner of a fruit stand. I am hungry and want to ask my mother for something to eat but I behave as she has taught me and remain quiet while they talk. Then I spy a juicy red apple perched on top of a pile of other apples and thinking of my hunger I reach out my hand… But wait! What if a thought is like an apple and instead of bringing it to myself I give it to Muta? Ruthlessly I erase the thought of the market and replace it with a piece of paper and a pen. Carefully I create the image of myself writing my message to Muta. I envision an envelope and again I carefully fold the paper with my message and put it in the envelope. I envision Muta. I envision her waiting for my letter. I take that letter and with my mind I pass it through the flames and watch it land unscathed in Muta's hand. I envision Muta opening my letter and reading my words:

«Muta, you are my best friend and companion and I cherish every moment with you. But you have changed me and the pain you have planted so deep within me hurts so badly that I can barely stand it. Please, make it go away.»

Then, in response, Muta's words form in my mind in a gentle voice like the sigh of the wind and the rustling of leaves:

«Isha, I feel the same about you. I share your pain for it is also mine. But what you want, I cannot give you for it ultimately requires the death of both of us.»

«Muta! Is that really you I hear in my mind?» I think.

«Yes, it is I,» comes again the gentle wind-and-leaves voice in my mind.

«But why were you not talking to me before?» I ask.

«But I was,» replies Muta. «You simply have not been listening.»

«You could have given me some indication that you were telepathic,» I respond resentfully.

I find myself staring into eyes that have once again become large and deep and feel myself being drawn into them without being burned by the searing tips of the flames as I pass through them. But this time I am prepared so I just let it happen.

«It would have mattered very little,» she tells me. «You would still have had to learn how to listen.»

«And what of this pain? Why do we have to die for it to stop?» I press.

«It is the pain of our bond that yearns for completion,» Muta begins to explain. «But its completion means that the two of us merge and sacrifice ourselves to give life to a new entity that is neither Faerie nor Witch but a amalgam of both. Our youth is preventing this merger because it requires, Isha, that we attain a certain level physical and mental maturity and development to reach completion.»


	8. Father back from the Sea

Summer flows into autumn and autumn into late autumn. Muta decides to make our cave her winter home and begins foraging for food to store for the long winter months but even with both of us working hard at it, we soon realize that we have not gathered nearly enough to last Muta throughout the entire winter. My mother and I put our heads together and work out a plan whereby we would build a "Faerie feeder" to attach to the outside wall of the sewing room that we could fill with extra food as Muta required it. We try several models with discouraging results. It is not that we cannot fasten the feeder against the wall and out of general sight, but we had to discover a way to keep out the multitudes of hungry birds and squirrels that steal the hoard of nuts, seeds and vegetables that we cash there for Muta before she can ever get to it. Some of our designs prove impervious to birds but not to squirrels. Other designs discouraged squirrels but not birds. Our second last design kept out both birds and squirrels but also Muta who found the latch too difficult for her strong but delicate fingers to work. We think that we have finally found the solution when the next morning we find the latest Faerie feeder smashed to smithereens on the cobblestone pathway. An enterprising squirrel discovered that he could let gravity do the work of breaking into our Faerie feeder by gnawing through the suspending ropes and sending it crashing onto the ground. We even discover the furry nut-napper amongst the wreckage placidly asleep on its back with its little forepaws hugging its bulging belly.

My mother is not one to give up a challenge and neither am I. Together we pour through our private library and find plans for a latching device that used rotating disks that is guaranteed to keep out birds and squirrels but is still easy enough for Muta to work. The new feeder is swiftly built but we are still wondering how to attach it securely to the wall when news reaches us that The Icy and my father aboard her has just sailed into port. We drop all our work and all problems with the Faerie feeder are banished from our minds as we rush down the stairs and head for the docks.

«What's going on?» inquires a soft wind-and-leaves voice in my head as a vision of saucer sized Faerie eyes forms in my mind.

«Muta! My father's come home from his long sea voyage!» I joyfully reply to the telepathic Faerie.

«A cause for celebration, indeed,» comes Muta's response.

I am running as fast as my legs can carry me dodging people, horses, carts, crates and barrels that are about the dockside as I make my way to The Icy. I see my father at the foot of the gangplank supervising the unloading of the ship's holds. He has barely time to turn around before I am there with my arms around his waist.

"Babbo! Father!" I cry to him with tears in my eyes and continue to babble, burble and coo to him half in Italian and half in English. Whether he made any sense out of my excited and tearful babbling or not, the one thing I did know for sure was that at that moment it was my father holding me tightly in his arms and that his sea-blue eyes were looking down into mine with nothing but love for his only daughter and weeping.

We turn and see my mother walking in a stately manner towards us but when she reaches the last few feet even she abandons all semblance of decorum as she rushes into my father's arms and kisses him passionately. Soon there is more chattering, babbling, burbling, cooing and joyful tears all around as more women and children gather around The Icy's gangplank to greet fathers, husbands, brothers, lovers and relations who have returned from the sea.

Within a few hours time, we are slowly following alongside a wagon heavily laden with my father's baggage, several containers of mysterious origins and a handful of The Icy's crew who have come along to help us move my fathers stuff into our house. Everything is first moved into our livingroom from whence my father orders bits and pieces of it to be moved to other rooms in the house. We then all sit together to enjoy a leisurely meal of salad, fruit, nuts, seeds berries and to sip cool cordials.

Our guests depart shortly afterwards and we are left to sit with my father as he opens the remaining few chests. For my mother there is the usual trove of books and manuscripts that he has collected for her during this voyage. There are also rare herbs and spices some of which are purported to possess miraculous healing powers for her to evaluate. For both of us there are dresses. For me there is a gorgeous one in midnight blue with silver trimming and blue-white lace. I try it on to model for my parents but find it too large and fitting but loosely over my yet girlish frame.

"You will grow into it, Isha," promises my mother with an encouraging smile.

"Aye, I'm sure that you will," adds my father, "and you will look like a fine young lady when you do."

Then there is jewellery. My father has me extend my arm and fastens about it a silver chain bracelet with figurines fastened about its edge. I count seven of them. Six are obviously Faeries in dresses with their wings extended but the seventh, which is the middle figure, is entirely different and looks like she was added as an afterthought. I examine her and realize that she is not wearing a dress but some sort of skin-tight outfit. Her hair is done up in a high ponytail and in her right hand she holds a walking staff.

"Who is she?" I ask my father.

"She is the leader," my father tells me, "a wise woman and a healer who with her retinue of six Faeries brings much good and change for the better into the world."

I look at him puzzled and ask, "Isn't this more a description of Mamma?" and try to remove the bracelet from my arm to give to her. My father, however, stops me. "No," he insists. "The silversmith from whom I bought it told me that this bracelet is definitely meant to be yours after I described you to him," and then folds my hand into his and squeezes it firmly but gently as if to give his words added strength. As he does, I feel the presence of a Faerie mind in mine making careful note of this for some future reference and then gently exiting.

Later that day, my mother and I are helping my father stow away a few last items in the sewing room when he notices our Faerie feeder.

"It looks like a fine bird feeder," remarks my father, "but what kind of bird requires a feeder like this?"

"Babbo, it's for Faerie not a bird," I giggle then suddenly put my hand to my mouth wondering if I should have said anything.

My father, however, is looking at my mother and smiling asks, "Ishandra! What kind of nonsense are you teaching our daughter?"

"It's not nonsense, Andrew," coos my mother while wrapping her arms around his waist and smiling into his salt-sea and sun tanned face. "Isha really has befriended a Faerie who comes to visit her here quite often."

I follow my mother's lead and coming to my father's side and wrapping my arms about his waist, smile and say, "It's true, Babbo. Her name is Muta."

My father looks down at the pair of us looking up at him sweetly with big brown doe eyes and laughs heartily. "Well, I guess even here we're a little too inland for Isha to be befriending a mermaid or a sea siren, so a Faerie it must be," he says while hugging us to him and we all laugh together.

We tell him of Muta's problem of getting enough food for the winter months and our idea of helping her with the feeder. We tell him of our problems with the birds and with a certain squirrel who sent the last feeder crashing to its ruin onto the ground.

"Your squirrel sounds like a right fine furry pirate," laughs my father thoroughly amused by the furry rascal's antics. "Perhaps on the next voyage I should sign him aboard The Icy and set him to working the rigging."

He releases us from his embrace and assuming a captain's stance and in his captain's voice begins to issue orders. "Master Nutkin!"

Then imitating a younger voice he replies to his own command, "Aye, Captain?"

"Get ye to the riggin', Master Nutkin, and show these sorry scums how to trim a proper mainsail," orders the Captain.

"Aye, aye, Captain!" responds Master Nutkin.

"Good lad, Master Nutkin," speaks the Captain and together and on cue we all say "Arrr!" and burst into gales of – and for my mother and I very unladylike – laughter.

"Well, let's see here," says my father while inspecting our feeder. "I think that an iron brace or two bolted into the wall will solve your problems with the wee birds and Master Nutkin. I shall set the ship's blacksmith to work on it."

Within a few days the braces are wrought and my mother, father and a few of The Icy's crew and I make a small celebration as our Faerie feeder is fitted into the braces and bolted to the wall. There is also another presence there to grace the event but she is visible only to my mother and I.

«I can't believe that you are all doing this for me!» whispers a wind-and-leaves voice in my mind.

«What is so hard to believe?» I reply. «You are my best friend and companion. I would do anything for you. And these are my parents and family friends who would do anything for me. Did you think that just because my mother and I are Witches it would be any different?»

«Thank them for me, would you, Isha?»

«Why not thank them yourself? I'm sure that all here would like to see a real live Faerie.» I reply.

«Tradition forbids me to become fully visible to more than one or two at a time, but, there is perhaps a compromise. Have everyone look towards the feeder.»

"Look to the feeder," I tell everyone excitedly. "Muta's about to make an entrance."

Everyone looks to the feeder as a glow envelops it and the disks turn seemingly by themselves. The doors open and a tangerine floats out from the inside, hovers in mid-air for a moment and then returns to the feeder. The doors shut and the disks turn to the lock position. I, of course, can see Muta behind all this but she remains invisible to everyone else gathered about – except for maybe my mother – who see only a glowing orb of light. Finally a glowing string drops from the orb of light which flows twisting and turning forming the word:

"My thanks to one and all. Muta."

The words hang in air for a few moments and then disappear as so too the orb of light as Muta flies back towards our secret cave.


	9. Winter & Return to the Sea

The winter months are dreary and lonely even with my father at home. We do not have winters heavy with snow like in the north of Italy but still it is a cold time of the year when all the flowers are gone, the trees are bare and many of the animals and birds disappear. It is a time of the year when many of the elderly, sick, frail and weak make their departure of this life. It is a time when we hold our yearly village-wide service with the families of those who have perished from the elements and from accidents and storms at sea and make our memorial to those taken in the previous years. The skies are gray, the winds blow cold and damp and the is air is filled with a briny mist from off the sea we call "Tears for the Dead". Even the sea is no longer a brilliant blue but dressed in its mourning attire of gray and dark green.

For my father's sake, my mother and I try to make the best of cheer while he is at home for we know that in a few month's time he will again set out to sea. This time, his trip will be aboard The Stormy across the open sea to the New World for a two-year voyage up and down the coast. It is a voyage that will be fraught with danger and peril from storms, pirates, war and disease.

We do our part in the preparation of the food that will be taken aboard for the voyage using techniques acquired by my mother from her studies and from the Witch common knowledge base. We lime eggs and make sauerkraut. We prepare meats preserved with hot spices rather than salt. We supervise the manufacture of the pea-flour biscuits called hard tack that we have quietly enriched with natural additives to improve their texture, nutritional value and storage life during the long voyage. We persuade my father to keep on board the Trix and allow free run to a number of civets which we obtained from our North African trading partners. Civets resemble some bazar cross between a cat and a ferret with gold and black fur and a long, ringed tail. Like cats, civets can be domesticated, safely handled by humans and trained to leave their mess in a litter box filled with sawdust that can be dumped overboard and replaced with fresh as required. They are also playful and acrobatic and can keep the crews amused for hours on end with their antics. Like ferrets and far better than the toughest, most aggressive of ship cats, they are vicious hunter-killers that can slink through the narrowest of passageways to stalk, flush and destroy ship rats, mice, cockroaches, mealworm moths, bore-worms, barnacles and a wide variety of other pests and vermin that destroy cargo, do structural damage and spread plague. But our greatest contribution to the Trix is really none of these but the manufacture of a white crystalline powder made from a concentration of the juices of barrels of lemons and limes. We have hundred pounds of this powder stored aboard the The Darcy, The Stormy and The Icy with instructions to my father and the other captains that every soul aboard is to receive a pinch of this powder with some water every day during the voyage. My father sees to it that our instructions are followed and although everyone including my father grimace, scowl and complain about having to drink their daily ration of this horridly sour "Trix Tonic" none of the Trix crews ever falls to another dreaded plague of the seas: scurvy. True, an English sea captain like my father named James Cook discovered about thirty years before that eating fresh limes and lemons, sauerkraut and carrot marmalade during a sea voyage prevented scurvy among his crew but it was a Grecian Witch who two thousand years earlier developed the technique to create the white powder that was used in her time as a skin cleanser and beauty aid for herself and her mistress. My mother discovers that the powder dissolved in fresh water has the same properties as the original fresh fruit juice and properly packaged in sealed glass containers lasted for years and could be packed in far less space than barrels of real lemons and limes that more often turned rotten before they could be consumed. We do all these things quietly without boasting or fanfare and none of the crews and not even my father ever suspect that it is the work of two Witches, a mother and her daughter, who did so much to ensure all a safe journey and safe return to port. My mother and I both feel great pride in our work.

"This," she tells me, "is an example of applied Witchcraft as it is meant to be – used only to serve the well-being of all living beings and never to bring ill to any."

The months pass with barely a peep from Muta except for sporadic telepathic demands for food which my mother and I place for her in her Faerie feeder. The food vanishes but never do we see Muta. Occasionally, we see the outline of a Faerie hand imprinted in the rime encrusting the surface of the feeder which is the only indication that she has been there at all. I risk a visit to our cave and discover her in the small cave with the warm waterfall stretched out in deep sleep and encased in a transparent chrysalis.

My mother is going through radical mood swings from joyful and hopeful to sad but then more and more into deeper and deeper sadness. I figure she is anticipating the long loneliness she would suffer during my father's absence. I try my best to console her but I seem unable to lift the deep melancholy that surrounds her. The night before his departure, we share a final family feast with my father and exchange gifts as we attempt to cram together and celebrate all the feasts he would miss sharing with us for the next two years. I retire that night sad with the thought that in the morning we will bid him a final farewell.

I wake up a few hours later to the sound of my mother's voice quietly sobbing and pleading with my father to stay just few more days or perhaps a week until she was sure of something. My father is murmuring to her in a sad and tearful voice that he has no choice but to leave on the morning tide but that no matter what may or may not be, she would forever be for him his beloved wife and loving angel upon the earth.

My mother and I are standing on the dock watching the top mast of The Stormy slipping below the horizon. Once more my father's sake, she has put on a brave and cheerful face for him but the moment The Stormy vanishes she breaks down in my arms and weeps bitterly. Through sobs I learn what it was she wanted so desperately to give my father as her most precious gift that she as a woman could give him and why she wanted him to wait so he could know and look forward with certainty and with joy to the gift that would be waiting for him upon his return from his long voyage: a child. Three days later, however, the appearance of her woman's flow announces as if written in cruel and pitiless scarlet red letters that all my mother's hopes have been undeniably and irrevocably quashed... that no new life from my father has taken or ever again will take root within her.


	10. Stormy is dying, Icy!

Someone shouting in Witchspeak is trying desperately to get my attention but the sphere's spell is making the words indistinct. I feel a stinging slap on my hand and suddenly I am back in my crib staring into a silver-furred face with yellow eyes, a canid nose, and a long, red tongue lolling out sideways from a panting maw.

"Oh, thank the Goddess!" barks a voice from out the maw of the dog-faced apparition. "Icy, you must get with all haste to Stormy."

"Stormy? Who is Stormy? Why must I go to her?" I mumble not being quite back to reality. I shake my head and realize that it's not an apparition before me but Lupa a Wolf-morph Witch who is also a student and resident at Cloud Tower. And Stormy? She is my sister and my crib mate and my Little One.

"Stormy! Goddess! Stormy! What's happened?" I cry now completely revived from my dream state.

This time it is Darcy's voice that replies as she bursts through the wall, her face contorted with urgency and anguish.

"Stormy's fallen into another one of her storm seizures! She's dying, Icy! You've got to save her!"

This has me rivetted into action. "Why didn't you call me through the ear?" I ask, my voice pitched somewhere between rage and hysteria.

"Honestly, we tried and tried several times but you did not answer!" cries Darcy. "I finally sent Lupa ahead to our crib to find out what gives."

"I found you here staring into some freaky sphere spinning on your fingertip completely out of it," breaks in Lupa. "I had to swat the damn thing full force to make it detatch and release you from its spell. What is it?"

"Never mind," I say, "this is an emergency. Where's Stormy, how long ago, how many M-E-U's?"

"Arboretum, 1-9, 5 min. best, tunnels 1 over 8 M-E-U," reports Lupa in Witch shorthand that means that Stormy is in the arboretum on the ninth floor of the first tower of Cloud Tower, this is about five minutes ago by her best estimate, and she had come through the underground tunnels which cost her a single magic energy unit (M-E-U) and she had eight left.

"Same, same, same, direct 2 over 6 M-E-U," reports Darcy which means mostly the same as Lupa's report except that she'd come directly by teleporting herself through two walls to get to our crib at a cost of two M-E-U's and that she had six left.

I assess my own state. Eight M-E-U's are what I have. That damn sphere has sucked out two of my usual ten already! It takes two for direct teleport to Stormy's location which is line-of-sight from our present location in the third tower but as far apart on opposite sides of Cloud Tower as one could get. And that is with just what I am wearing. Then we have to get Stormy's discharge bracelets to her which are actually two, five-inch long, half-inch thick solid gold manacles with about eight feet of solid gold chain attached to each of them. If I carried the bracelets it would cost me another five units – seven units but then I needed six units for the energy hungry ice chrysalis I would need to protect myself to save Stormy whose time is fast running out.

"I'm neg on M-E-U's if I teleport with Stormy's discharge bracelets," I report.

"I can take them there through the tunnels," yips Lupa and I mentally slap myself for being such a twit and not seeing the solution right there under my nose. Lupa in full wolf transformation is the fastest Witch on four paws except for maybe the cheetahs.

"Is there any security at the arboretum and who?" I ask.

"Yes," say Lupa and Darcy together. "But it's Matchka," finishes Darcy.

"Matchka?" I almost spite with rage. "Goddess, why her and why now?"

The huge angora Cat-Witch guard is security all right but she also one who holds a burning hatred of me for some yet unexplained slight I was supposed to have committed years ago now. Goddess knows how hard I have tried to find out what it is I did wrong by her and apologise and make restitution for it but all I can get out of her is hiss, snarl, spit and broken record. No doubt she is standing by doing nothing and enjoying herself thinking that she is getting some perverse revenge on me watching Stormy convulsing, screaming and puking in what may be her final death throws.

"Okay, Darcy. I want you to get Mieze... No! Scratch that! Get M'Trika. Break down her door and kick her out of bed if you have to but get her there. Lupa, when you get back there warn everyone that they are in mortal danger standing anywhere near Stormy that the lightning arching off of her is certain death to anyone who gets hit. Clear them out of the way and be sure too to get Matchka out of harm's way. Bite that she-cat's damn tail off her furry butt if need be to get her out of there but get her to safety. Ladies, the clock is ticking and Stormy may have only minutes left. You have your orders, now move out!"

I watch Lupa transform into full wolf mode, pick up the sack with Stormy's bracelets between her jaws and bolt out the door like a silver bullet. Darcy gives me a meaningful nod and vanishes. Then I take a breath and I am on my way.

I am out of the third tower and floating through the air towards the first. The Alfean sky is clear and beautiful with moons and stars. They are sources of magical energy for many but useless to me. As I float, I close my eyes and pray, "O Goddess, grant me speed and power." Then, remembering that Cloud Tower is also a living being capable of its own transmutations, I plead to it on the wind. "Tower, I know you have every right to hate me for the evil I have done you. But my sister, my precious Little One, is dying and only I can save her. I have barely the power I need to do that. Please, have pity this once and do not resist me but grant me a clear passage through your walls to reach her in time." And then I float on.


	11. Rescue

A light is opening in the tower before me which is obviously a tunnel into the first tower that had not been there before. Cloud Tower made its decision to cooperate with me rather than fight me, thank it and the Goddess. I put on a burst of speed and make my way through the new tunnel but even before I reach the end, I hear Stormy's screaming and all pandemonium breaking loose. The normal passageways are clogged with useless gawkers who never fail to show up when least needed. Lupa, however, who is still in her full wolf transformation, is barking and nipping at everyone's heels as she herds them away and further back into the passageways. Matchka, broad-shouldered and standing head and shoulders above the crowd, is, thankfully, encouraging everyone to move back as well.

I'm desperately searching the crowd for Darcy and see her hovering near the edge of one of the passageways. "Darcy, get over here now!" I scream at her.

Darcy floats over and lands beside me in the new tunnel. "Where's M'Trika and where are Stormy's bracelets?" I ask.

"M'Trika's coming," Darcy informs me, "and she knows about the situation and Matchka. Stormy's bracelets are in the arboretum with Stormy."

I move to the entrance of the arboretum and chance a quick peek in. Stormy is writhing and screaming with lightning arching about her in sickly, yellow fingers. Everything is either burnt or burning for about six feet around her but I see the fire resistant sack holding her bracelets under her feet. "Good woman, Lupa," I breath to myself. "You took a terrible risk but you got the bracelets right where I need them."

"Darcy, charge me, I'm going in," I yell above the din. Darcy raises her hands her palms towards me and a stream of energy bursts from her hands and joins itself with mine. "Ice chrysalis!" I yell clapping my hands over my head and bringing them down to my sides. As I do, a glowing wall forms around me taking the semblance of a moth chrysalis and then shrinking about me like a glowing second skin. Few standing there watching would have guessed or believed that the ice chrysalis that is now a part of my arsenal was inspired by a Faerie named Muta who I once knew nine years ago. It is a variation of the ice coffin but instead of immobilizing me, it formed a protective barrier around me allowing sustaining air to pass through while protecting me from the deadly discharge now arching around Stormy's body.

Stormy is now in desperate shape. Her skin is oozing green slime as her body makes a last ditch effort to save itself. Death is only a scant few minutes away if I do not act quickly. I rush in and go directly for the sack containing the bracelets. The lightening senses my presence and dives for me like many frogs' tongues lashing out at a single fly. With each strike I feel the chrysalis reacting to protect me but taking more and more of my precious energy.

I decide to go for a leg and avoid the grasping hands for Stormy's charged fingers need only to break through the chrysalis at a single point to bring me instant death. I grab the closest leg and wipe off the green slime to get to bare skin and clamp on the first bracelet. I lock it but, while my eyes are diverted, I am caught unawares by her other foot that kicks up catching me under the chin and knocking me backwards. Mercifully, the chrysalis protects me but my head is swimming and I sense another large drain on my energy. Willing back the pain in my jaw, I make for the other bracelet. After a second try, I grab Stormy's other foot, clean off a section of green slime and clamp and lock the second bracelet.

"Cloud Tower," I call out hoarsely. "I need two posts: gold and grounded."

Two post with eyelets appear from out of the floor and I run the golden chains through the eyelets and secure them as quickly as I can. The effect is immediate. The chains glow as the surplus of energy is drained from Stormy's body into the ground. Stormy makes one final convulsion then rests quietly on the ground, her body still oozing green slime from its pores. I can no longer maintain full power to the ice chrysalis but I fear dissolving it completely lest a remaining energy bolt leap from Stormy's body and strike me. I reduce to half power but that leaves me breathing the unfiltered air of the arboretum, air filled with the stench of fear, the stench of burning wood, the stench of burnt clothing, the stench of green slime and the stench of dried, boiling and burning puke. My body reacts and I lose my gorge as my stomach heaves spasmodically in painful convulsions.


	12. Confrontation

I finally regain enough energy to move again and, nearly slipping on my own vomit as I make my way to Stormy, I undo the bracelets and pick her up in my arms. I try to make my way out of the arboretum but Matchka is in front of me blocking the only exit out. I move the other way trying to get around her but again she blocks me.

"Let me by, Matchka," I plead to the huge Cat-Witch guard. "Stormy may still be dying. I have to get her to where I can treat her."

"No," replies Matchka coldly and stands her ground.

"What do you want, Matchka?" I ask.

"I want your apology," snarls Matchka.

"Ok, you have it but let me by," I tell her.

"Not good enough," hisses Matchka. "Name your offence and apologise for it and then I will let you by."

It is useless. It is the old game of hiss, snarl, spit and broke record again. I can keep asking what I have to apologize to her for and she will keep on saying that I know and round and round it will go forever. But this time she has me cold and she knows it. I am too weak to teleport with Stormy through the wall. If I ask for another passage from Cloud Tower she will just move to block it and she is much too fast for me to fake out. If I put Stormy down to be free to cast a spell she will have a counter-spell on me before I can raise my arms.

"Stormy is dying and she will die if I don't get to where I can treat her," I cry, making a desperate final appeal. "Is my offence so great as to require the death of a Sister Witch as recompense?"

"Never thought of that. She's your Blood Sister and you share your auræ too, I've heard," replies Matchka, her jaws open in an evil cat grin and her eyes smoldering sapphire blue. "So be it. Leave her on the floor and I will allow you to pass by and consider your offence forgotten."

Darcy, who is standing behind Matchka, gets wind of what has been said and totally freaks. "No!" she shrieks. "Optical blindness!" But before she can even cast the spell from her fingers, Matchka slams her hard with a counter-spell that pins her against a wall, her arms dangling uselessly by her sides.

"Well, what is it to be?" goads Matchka.

"Never!" I rage back in defiance holding Stormy even closer to me.

"Have it your way," replies Matchka, her voice pitiless. "I'll keep you trapped in here until she's dead and then maybe I'll take you out too."

"She has beaten me. I have no hope left," whispers a voice within me as my body and mind go numb with despair.

There is a flash. I look up and see M'Trika, a Witch with skin or maybe fur so black that it seems to absorb all her features, standing staff in hand between Matchka and me. M'Trika's golden, vertically-slit eyes assess the situation. She turns to Matchka and hisses something I gather means "Back off!" Matchka loses her evil cat smile but looks at M'Trika offended and hisses and yowls something in return. M'Trika hisses and spits again but when Matchka defiantly stands her ground snarling, I get a very fast and hard-hitting demonstration of why, despite being shorter and slenderer than most of the Cat-Witch guards, she is their leader. On Alfea, I though I was the meanest, toughest Witch on the planet. My sisters, Darcy and Stormy, and I kicked as much Witch, Faerie and any other booty as we wanted and no one Witch or Faerie or anything else could defeat us. It took an army of Witches, Faeries and Heros working together plus one exceptional Faerie named Bloom to vanquish us. But still, in a one-on-one fight I was still the Alpha-Witch. That was, however, until I found myself trapped in Cloud Tower and then the Cat-Witches showed up. Cat-Witches are born and bred to be fighters. Besides having their size and strength, they are trained from their first days in the art of combat and in all manner of offensive and defensive spells. They are also so blazing fast that not even the very best of human Witches can so much as blink before a Cat-Witch can hamstring her and hang her out to dry with a number of spells and counter-spells. Being a Cat-Witch, Matchka has deposed me as Alpha-Witch at Cloud Tower. But today, Matchka learns that, despite being tougher and meaner than I, there is someone with the same traits who is several notches above her by the name of M'Trika... and she is here and ticked. M'Trika goes into a blur of action my eyes cannot even track. The next thing I see is Matchka crouched on the floor leaning against a wall with her tail between her legs, bleeding from her nose, her hand-paws over her head and mewling like a whipped kitten.

"Take Stormy and get going," M'Trika orders me in Witchspeak.

I pick up Stormy and head out of the arboretum. As I pass by Matchka, she glowers at me with her eyes blazing pure hatred and spits something at me in her own language. It sounds nasty and vulgar and I am sure is calculated to rattle me and to provoke me into doing something rash. "Well, Matchka, word games are my strong-suit," I think to myself. I look at her and, employing my sweetest, ultra-cloying and super-adhesive smile, say to her in Arabic, "Why Matchka, my sweet pussykins, I love you too. Now, be a dear and go chase a mouse." I don't bother to wait for the reaction. There is no way that Matchka knows Arabic. I hear an angry snarl and know that she has assumed that I have hit back at her with something just as nasty and vulgar and maybe even worse and I can imagine that her fur is now standing on-end. Then, totally unbidden, my mind is filled with images of Matchka and I as lovers. I am a owl and she is a pussycat who have just been married by some turkey on a hill and we are dancing our nuptial waltz wrapped in each other's arms under the full moon. "Look quickly behind you," whispers a voice in my head. I turn around and see Matchka, who has obviously received the same image, sitting there dumbfounded with her whiskers bristling and her eyes wide open in shock and disbelief.

"Stormy, O Stormy!" wails Darcy's voice in my ear bringing me back to the reality at hand and the urgent need to be away from here and somewhere where I can assess Stormy's condition.

"O Icy, she's going to live, isn't she? O Icy, tell me she's going to live. Stormy, don't die on me! Please don't die!" pleads Darcy hysterically.

"I don't know, Darcy," I hiss through my teeth. "Now get yourself together and don't fall apart on me. This is no time for hysterics. We're not out of this yet. We need to get somewhere fast that's safe."

"Where do you suggest we go?" asks Darcy.

"Back to our crib where I can hook Stormy to her discharge posts if need be. O Goddess! Her bracelets are back in the arboretum."

"No, they're with me," I hear Lupa's voice shout as she in her humanoid form hastens to join us. "I rushed in to get them as soon as you were safely past Matchka. What on Alfea did you say to her, Icy? She's about to give birth to kittens back there."

My legs begin to buckle as my weakened state and Stormy's relaxed but dead weight in my arms begin to weigh me down. "I can't fly or teleport at all," I report to Darcy and Lupa.

"I'm much the same," reports Darcy. "Matchka's counter-spell zapped most of my reserves."

"No," reports Lupa without my asking. "The bracelets, yes, but not Stormy."

"I can help," breaks in a voice beside us.

We turn around and see disembodied gold, vertically-slit eyes and a staff glowing yellow in the dark of the passageway. Someone steps forward into the light and I realize that it is M'Trika who against her black skin is wearing a black loincloth dress, a black top and a black sweatband.

"I can teleport you all to your dorms except you, Icy. I will teleport you with Stormy to the common showers beside your dorm where you can clean her up and yourself as well," says M'Trika making motions of distress over the horrid stench reeking from the two of us.


	13. Anger

I am suddenly with Stormy in the common showers where our entrance catches several Sisters of several species by surprise. However, no matter whatever type of breathing apparatus they possess, they are all being quickly covered as they all make their escape leaving the showers to Stormy and me. I realize that only water and scrubbing will take care of this mess. I bring Stormy into one of the stalls where I lay her down. I first shed my own clothes, toss them into a corner and freeze them to kill the stench. I work on Stormy's clothes but soon realize that all the fastenings are clogged with dried green slime and puke. I give up on it and use my diamond-hard and razor-sharp nails instead to cut through them. Her top and bra come off easily enough. I toss them onto the pile with my own clothes and freeze them. The rest is a tougher matter. I get through her dress and peel it off only to find that her underclothes are soaked in urine and caked with faeces and green slime. I have to rub at several areas before I get at a spot where I can cut them off without cutting her. I add them to the pile and freeze them so solid that they would stay that way for eons. Her hair I don't even try to clean. I invoke a hair removing spell that depilates her scalp and every other place it can reach. I open the faucets and let the warm water pour down on the both of us as I begin the task of breaking off the mess of crud covering her body and striping it away like bits of broken pottery. It is then I allow myself to weep.

"She would have let you die," I sob to her as I clean her. "Stormy, she would have just stood there doing nothing and watched you die. Well, my Little One, Matchka can take her broken record and her demands for an apology from me and shove them. She attacked you, threatened me and tried to force me to abandon you to die, my Little One, so now it is she who has a dept to pay. And Matchka's going to pay... she is so going to pay for this. No matter what it takes, my Sister, my precious Little One, Matchka's going down, I swear it."

The task of cleaning done, I take Stormy out of the shower stall, dry her off and wrap her in blankets. The pile of frozen clothes I levitate and send down the disposal. Then, I find for myself a disposable dressing gown and slip it on. I take Stormy into my arms and head to our crib.

I enter our crib and find a small crowd there. Darcy, of course, M'Trika, Miss Griffin and Alysoun. Lupa must have left but I see Stormy's bracelets beside the discharge posts. I put Stormy on her bed and try to make her as comfortable as possible while Alysoun examens her.

"Lady Griffin and I performed a_ Revocare _spell in the arboretum and reviewed what transpired," states M'Trika. "Rest assured that Matchka will be punished for her actions. No offence that she has suffered or thinks she has suffered merits the death of a Sister Witch."

"I quite concur," adds Miss Griffin. "A simple duel should have settled the matter but this is going too far."

Miss Griffin goes to Stormy's bedside and looks down at her in almost a maternal fashion and places her hand on Stormy's forehead. She regards Alysoun, nods her head and vanishes without another word.

"Alysoun, a moment of privacy, if you please. I have a few things I need to say to these young Witches," says M'Trika.

"Certainly, M'Trika," replies Alysoun and vanishes.

M'Trika wastes no time telling us what's on her mind. "You three," she drones at us in a low growl as she indicates Darcy, Stormy and me, "have caused me nothing but trouble up to my whiskers and beyond!"

"Whiskers?" whispers Darcy. "She's a Cat-Witch guard?"

"Yes, Darcy, whiskers, if you must know," states M'Trika as she produces a globe of yellow light in her hand-paw that makes her facial features stand out. "APather-morph Witch, to be exact and the one in charge of the Cat-Witch guards and also the one with a mandate directly from The High Council of the Sisterhood of Witches to restore order here at Cloud Tower."

The two of us find ourselves staring at M'Trika's jet black cat face with black cat ears hidden in a mat of frizzy head fur and jet black whiskers plated against her furry cheeks that are twitching in the manner we have come to know to mean by Cat-Witch guards that they are angry or upset. M'Trika's wrinkled nose and twitching whiskers are telling us both that this particular Panther-morph is more than just royally peeved.

"Well, congratulations you three," continues M'Trika. "Your trouble-making has got you noticed by some powerful people at The High Council and they are not at all amused. The Goddess alone only knows why you are so all important to them. If it were up to me, you three would be swinging from gibbets as a warning to all Witches who think they can break the rules and regulations, snub their noses at The Sisterhood and get away with it. So on my watch, this is how it will be: Icy, Matchka will be punished as promised. In the meantime, you don't go near her or say or do anything to provoke her.

"Fine, with pleasure," I reply coldly knowing that M'Trika is very capable of dishing out punishment far worse than anything I could imagine but, still, a part of me hankers for my own kick at the cat.

"Next, Icy," continues M'Trika in the tone of someone checking item one off of a long list, "you will cease this quest of yours for the Dragon Fire. Any and all arguments you have with the group of Faeries known as the Winx Club are hereby settled. You are not to go near them or directly or indirectly cause them any mischief."

"But Bloom has my Dragon Fire!" I protest loudly.

"Silence!" roars M'Trika, not even bothering to hide the angry cat element of her voice. "I am telling you that you leave them all alone. Especially Bloom. I don't care if Bloom shows up here and now fluttering her pretty Faerie wings and snubbing her cute Pixie nose at you while she spits you in the eye. You don't even breathe in her direction without my say-so. And that also goes for you, Darcy, and Stormy too."

There is a pause as M'Trika allows that last bit to sink in – which it does – painfully so.

"Now, Icy, since you enjoy playing at Alpha-Witch so much, I am putting you in charge of your two sisters. You will see to it that they cause no mischief for if they do, I'll be here to punish them and whatever I mete out to them, Icy, you'll get double. And as for what I'll do to you if you get out of line – you don't even want to go there. So don't even think of messing with me! First and final warning," concludes M'Trika.

"Darcy," says M'Trika fixing her gaze on the brunette Witch, "you have heard what I have told your sister. I want no trouble from you for you know what's going to happen. Now there is another little matter I need to settle with you in private."

M'Trika gives me a final meaningful look, takes Darcy's hand and together they vanish. A few seconds later, while my ears are still burning and buzzing, Alysoun, the Avian-Witch healer of Cloud Tower reappears.


	14. Bitter Memories

Alysoun resumes her examination of Stormy while I quietly watch on.

Alysoun and I go back nine years now. She was part of the team that rescued me from the cave in Italy where I was hiding out with Muta after my mother, after being bludgeoned from behind by some beast named Alfonso, had be dragged out of our house by an irate mob to the village square where they tied her to a stake, doused her with oil and set her ablaze. I changed forever that night for with every shriek from my mother as she writhed dying in the flames a part of me died with her until nothing was left inside me but a heart forever frozen in a block of blue ice. Many ask me why I did nothing to save my mother. What they do not realize is that, at age fourteen, I was only a shadow of the Witch I am today. What I had in the way of powers then didn't even rate a pathetic parlour trick compared to my powers today. Then all I could do is cloak the light about me to make myself invisible and cringe helplessly in fear as I watched them murder her.

But it did not end there. The entire village then turned its energies to hunting for me. I was entirely safe from the villagers and witch hunters in the refuge of our cave but even with Muta's help I could not sustain myself for long with the meagre provisions available. Unlike Muta, I cannot subsist on dried fruit, tree bark and grains of wheat that Muta found amongst the frozen stubble of the fields. It was also winter time when Muta spent much of her time in hibernation – another thing I cannot do – thus conserving her energy and reducing her need for food. I was finally driven to stealing chickens and eggs to get some sort of protein to subsist on. But there were only so many chicken coops in the region and soon enough the villagers came to realize that their "fox" was capable of opening locks and avoiding traps so they set themselves to guarding their coops night and day so that even cloaked it was too risky to go near them.

Shortly after, I gained my ability to draw from the body of common knowledge that is available to all Witches. It is a nightmare, however, to access the information stored there. This body of common knowledge is a huge but totally random repository of what thousands of Witches for thousands of years before me thought might be useful information held together with some sort of glue. Visually, it is like huge warehouse that goes on forever filled with boxes, books, manuscripts and other weird and wonderful artifacts. One enters it with the concept of what is needed in one's mind and prays that the box, bag, book or even writing on the wall required will present itself. It did, however, show me how to set traps whereby I managed to catch the odd rabbit or bird. But even then, fortune seemed to be against me for, even though I set many traps, I found myself competing with starving foxes and wolves who often got to my catch before I could collect it. Often I would find only torn bits scattered about which I collected, washed off and ate. But worse still where the human hunters who made a point of destroying any traps of mine they happened to find.

It was mid-winter when I was out collecting from my traps. I moved invisibly collecting what little bounty there was when in my haste I blundered into a hunting party packing muskets loaded for Witch. Usually, if I stood still, I was protected by my cloak of invisibility but this only worked when hunters had human eyes. This time, there were also hound eyes and they were not fooled. The hounds started to bay in my direction and, although I tried to move silently behind a tree, I was not fast enough. I saw the musket being raised, heard the shot, saw the heavy musket ball coming for me and dove for cover but still it gored me deeply as it burned its way across the top of my hips. I shrieked and although I maintained my cloak of invisibility the blood flowing from the wound became instantly visible as soon as was beyond my short sphere of influence. I flew straight up and managed to escape the hail of musket balls that followed and make it back to the cave. I washed out the wound as best I could but found I could not stand up without my head swimming and falling down again. I was soon reduced to eating cave crawlers and to eating raw the luminous fish from our underground wading pool. When Alysoun and her group found me, I was emaciated and near death suffering from malnutrition, fever induced from the infected wound on my back and from worms and parasites that infested my intestines. Even after being transported to the safety of Cloud Tower I was to remain delirious with fever for several more days while Alysoun and other Witches worked powerful healing magic to wrest me back from the clutches of grim Death. It was that together with traces of Faerie dust the Witches said they found in the wound that saved me. As for Muta, the rescue team took only what little time was necessary to pack me up and transport me to Alfea. Although they recalled seeing telltale signs that a Faerie had been dwelling in the cave too, they could not spare any time to go looking for her. My guess is that Muta was hibernating near the warm waterfall, or, if she was awake, she took off and flew as far and as fast as her Faerie wings could carry her the moment the Witches showed up. I have only the constant pain of our bond deep within me to tell me that somewhere Muta is still alive. When I awoke, the first words to penetrate my mind were, "What is your name, child?" I remember hearing myself respond, "Isha", in a weak, slurred voice. "'Icy' is it?" says another voice next to me. "Well, it suits her well enough so Icy it is." I had yet to learn that my hair had changed to blue-white, my skin to the colour of snow and my eyes to a frozen pale blue.

"There is no serious damage that I can determine," chirps Alysoun in her avian dialect of Witchspeak which sounds like a human voice married to an alto recorder. "She will need around-the-clock surveillance until she awakens. I suspect that she will probably sleep for a long while yet and when she awakes she will be starving."

Alysoun reaches into her bag and retrieves from it what looks like an adult-sized baby bottle with a nipple, a jar filled with brown powder and a measuring spoon. "One measure of formula in a full bottle of water every four hours. At least four bottles of water between the bottle of formula until it's finished," she instructs me. "There is not much more I can do until she awakens. Call me the moment she does."

"I'll move my bed next to hers," I tell Alysoun. "If she wakes up or begins to stir, she will wake me up."

"How are you holding up?" asks Alysoun while brushing my cheek in that gentle way she did when I was bedridden those many weeks after the rescue barely able to speak and much too weak to hold even a spoon.

"I'm doing okay," I tell her, "I'm just wiped from all of tonight's goings-on."

"I can give you something to help you relax, if you wish," offers Alysoun.

"Not necessary, Alysoun, I'll relax with some deep breathing," I reply.

"Fine, send for me as soon as Stormy wakes up," says Alysoun and vanishes.


	15. Darcy's Heartbreak

I must have fallen into a deep sleep while lying on my bed next to Stormy. Darcy must have come in silently and gone directly to her bed but it is her sobbing that awakes me the next morning.

"Ut-oh!" I think to myself. "I know the sound of that kind of crying and it's not just over Stormy."

I go to her bed where she is lying on her stomach crying into her pillow. "Hey, what gives?" I ask her gently while sitting on the bed beside her. Darcy sits up, throws her arms around my neck and continues to cry on my shoulder.

"M'Trika must have lit into you something fierce to merit this much fuss," I say while rubbing her back. "What did she have to say?"

"Nothing much more than what she told us together but..." and then there is a long silence.

"O Goddess, here it comes," I'm thinking. "But what?" I encourage her.

"I have to leave Riven!" she wails in a long sob and starts crying even harder.

Yes, Riven, the brooding young specialist from Red Fountain to whom Darcy finds herself bound. I had forced her to break up with him two years ago just before our attack on Red Fountain and Alfea College on our quest for the Dragon Fire. A few months after the debacle with Baltor and she has rushed back to Riven's arms again. O yes, Darcy, I know about your escapades with him mostly because you couldn't resist rubbing Musa's nose in it every chance you got. You made it the worst kept secret on the whole Planet of Alfea and I just let it be.

"So, what's the drama?" I ask her. "He's just a guy. You can go to the Hex Café and snare for yourself a dozen more like him. You have him hooked on one of your illusions. Riven thinks he's with Musa when he's really with you. It's not like he loves you or you love him or anything. He's only your current boy-toy."

"Not true!" protests Darcy. "He's under no illusion. He knows and has known whom he has been courting and what I am for a long time. I've bared my heart to him and told him how much I truly love him and Riven has opened his to me. We're in love with each other, Icy."

I hold Darcy back by her shoulders and look into her eyes that are still weeping and filled with the soft glow that means only one thing. "O Darcy, Darcy, you little fool!" I sigh. "You really are in love with him this time, aren't you? Goddess help you."

I fold Darcy into my arms and rock her while resting my chin on the top of her head and catch fleeting thoughts of nesting and nurturing.

"Darcy! You're not..." I gasp.

"I'm not what?" asks Darcy puzzled but then catching my drift exclaims, "No, I'm not but I have been thinking about it. Icy, don't look so shocked! I'm twenty-two and you're twenty-three and by now we both know what we want. You want your blasted Dragon Fire and I want this. If Riven wants me to be his good little Witch wife, to take care of his house and to serve him hand-and-foot and to bear his children for him then right now I'm so there for him. All I want is my bit of happiness in this world and to be with Riven."

There is a pause while I continue to rock Darcy in my arms. "Icy," asks Darcy almost timidly, "do you think M'Trika can really force Riven and me apart?"

"I'm sorry, Darcy," I reply, "but I know she can. For the moment, it is she who has the authority and the power to back it up and we can't do a thing. But that could still change and maybe it will," I add trying to be encouraging.

"And Musa," sobs Darcy in my arms. "Why can't she get it through her stupid pixie head that Riven is no longer hers? Why can't she just fly far away and toot on her little flute or do whatever else faeries do with flutes and leave Riven and me alone? This is so unfair!"

"Yes, it is," I reply as my own searing pain deep within me reminds me that I too am separated by space and time from the one with whom I am bound. "This is so unfair," I whisper to Darcy as I rock her in my arms while tears trickle down my cheeks.


	16. The WomanChild

Stormy finally awakens with a gale of crying and for a time I have to deal with two weeping women. But Darcy quickly rallies and we apply ourselves to the reality at hand. I go to the ear and summon Alysoun. Darcy, in the meantime, has her own problems because a starving Stormy is determined to feed but it is not pizza or a succulent spider that she wants but mother's milk and whom she wants it from is Darcy. Stormy has grabbed a fistful of Darcy's blouse and is literally trying to rip it off of Darcy's body to get at her nipple. Quickly, I grab the large feeding bottle Alysoun has left and hurry to mix a batch of formula and snap the rubber nipple back into place. "Move aside," I tell Darcy who is trying to hold back Stormy's grasping and groping hands. Stormy starts screaming and crying in protest as the objects of her desire move away from her. I take Darcy's place and it takes but a second for Stormy to realize that I come with the same equipment as Darcy and she instantly tries to zero in on one. But I'm ready for her. _ "Anelli!" _I cry and a padded rings with leashes form around Stormy's wrists. I take the leashes and wrap them around Stormy so her hands are tied against her body. I then take the feeding bottle and try to direct the nipple into her mouth. There is a flash and Alysoun appears just as I succeed in getting Stormy to accept the bottle and to start sucking greedily from it.

"What's the matter with Stormy?" cries Darcy hysterically to Alysoun.

Alysoun wastes no time trying to sugarcoat anything. "Stormy may have sustained brain damage," she tells us. "I can't tell you yet how extensive it may be. You may have to prepare yourselves to accept that Stormy's gone and the only thing left of her is a pretty woman's body in which no one lives."

"No!" screams Darcy her face gone pale and her hands over he mouth in horror.

"Matchka!" I scream in rage and agony for my Little One. "Matchka, you're going to die!"

I raise my arms to teleport out of our crib in search of Matchka but Alysoun grabs my arms and holds them fast.

"No, Icy!" shrills Alysoun. "Harming Matchka is not going to fix anything and will only get you deeper into trouble with M'Trika."

"Let me go, Alysoun!" I hiss.

"No, you are not going anywhere," says Alysoun almost tenderly. I feel a prick on my hand and my legs instantly fold under me as a down covered arm wraps itself about my waist.

My head is splitting as if a team of Pixies had been using it as a bocci court. "Owww," I groan. I struggle to make sense out of three blurs that are bobbing in front of me and a strange melange of sounds I think are voices. I feel a light prick on my hand and slowly the blurs begin to solidify into faces and the noises about me begin to make sense.

"Hello," yips a stranger's voice from a brick-red and white furred face with a delicate, red tongue lolling out of one side of an equally delicate canid muzzle.

"Are you back with us?" inquires an alto voice from a bird-like face covered with multicoloured down feathers.

"Hello, Sister," greets a sultry voice.

I fix on that last voice and look into Darcy's face with its forehead creased in worry, its brunette hair into eyes red and swollen from crying and its lips smiling but only weakly.

"Darcy, you look a wreck," I mumble. "For the Goddess' sake go take a shower and put on a fresh blouse," I say seeing that she is still wearing the one Stormy tore when she first woke up.

"You should see yourself," laughs Darcy. "Maybe we should both take a shower."

Showered and changed into disposable dresses, Darcy and I re-enter our crib. Alysoun is sitting on Darcy's bed while a stranger is standing over Stormy performing some sort of ritual. Alysoun signals us to remain quiet but to come around to where she is sitting.

I watch the stranger who might be one of Lupa's kin but she is much smaller and a great deal more delicate. She is moving her hand-paws in a hypnotic fashion over Stormy. Her arms are covered in black fur resembling long evening gloves for a red and white formal dress. Her legs appear to be clad in high black boots and around her foot-paws is wrapped a bushy brick-red tail tipped with blob of white. Her ears are delicate and pointed and standing straight up.

When the ritual concludes, Alysoun signals the stranger to join us. "Ladies, I would like you to meet Vulpa who is a novice at Cloud Tower," says Alysoun in the way of an introduction. "Vulpa, meet Icy and her sister Darcy."

"Hello," I say taking Vulpa's hand-paw into my own hand in greeting and noticing at the same time that each finger is tipped with a delicate, none-retractable claw like Lupa's hand-paws and begin to feel quite intrigued by this little one and wondering why.

"Vulpa comes to us with a very special talent for reading auræ," continues Alysoun. "I have asked her to read Stormy's aura in the hope of shedding more light on her current condition."

"We would be thankful for any help you can give us, Vulpa," responds Darcy. "Can you give us any hope?"

"Hope, yes," replies Vulpa looking skittish, "but it's good and bad depending how you want to look at it."

"The good first, please Vulpa," I ask.

"The good is that Stormy's body is not just an empty shell. There is a life in there that is healthy and vibrant," states Vulpa, as Darcy covers her face and begins to weep and I breathe a sigh of relief.

"Go on," I encourage Vulpa.

"The bad... the bad is I don't know what Stormy's original aura was like. The life that now occupies Stormy's body may or may not be hers. All I can tell you for sure is that it is very, very young," says Vulpa nervously.

"How young?" Darcy and I ask together.

"It's the life of an infant," says Vulpa with the look in her green eyes of one expecting the blade to fall upon her neck.

There is a long pause punctuated only with Darcy's soft sobbing as the news registers on each one of us. I look at Vulpa and realize how young she is. Goddess, she is still a girl only on the cusp of womanhood. How in Alfea did she get admitted to Cloud Tower? This should be at least five more years down the road for her.

"I could do the examination again to be sure," offers Vulpa looking at us with fright still registering in her eyes. "I could be mistaken," she adds in a voice soft with apology and her ears canted submissively.

"Not necessary, Vulpa, but thanks," replies Alysoun. "We have your certification to assure us that your readings are accurate."

"Is Stormy going to stay an infant for the rest of her life?" I ask Vulpa and Darcy's attention is also directed from her own sorrow to Vulpa.

"If the life within her is normal, which it appears to be by what her aura indicates," explains Vulpa, "I would say 'No' but Stormy will be starting from the very beginning of her new life which means potty-training, learning to walk, to talk and the whole gambit of childhood plus she will have to contend with all the functions of her adult woman's body."

We are once again at a point of allowing this information to sink in and beginning to realize all the implications and changes to our lives that this has laid at our feet. Stormy has now become this woman-child that Darcy and I, as blood, are obliged to protect and care for. We are standing there staggering from the mental shock of it all.

"Alysoun," begs Vulpa, "unless there are other things to be done or questions, I really need to be away from here. May I please retire to my chamber?"

Darcy and I shake our heads. "No and thank you, Vulpa," I tell her.

"Thank you, Vulpa," adds Darcy taking Vulpa's hand-paw gently into hers and squeezing it lightly.

"If there is anything I can do to help, you may contact me through Alysoun," says Vulpa and then vanishes.

"If you have any doubts about Vulpa's abilities," says Alysoun breaking the silence, "know that she holds a triple gold cluster certification for reading auræ. I would thank you, though, to keep that information confidential."

"By the Tree!" gasps Darcy. "That goes far beyond a talent – that's a curse! Yes, Alysoun, we will keep that confidential, Sister's honour."

"You have my word, Alysoun," I add my heart aching for Vulpa realizing that her fate is to burn out and die in agony in only a few more years, "Sister's honour."

"This too is the end of any information I can give you," says Alysoun. "Even my talents are somewhat limited when it comes to Stormy because she is a Storm-Witch. The special shielding her kind have around their heads and other parts is resistant to my sound probes so I cannot tell if everything is right in there or not. Perhaps another Witch with a different kind of magic can see into Stormy's head and tell you more. I shall take my leave of you now. Good day."

"I don't know of any Witch with that kind of power," says Darcy as soon as Alysoun vanishes. "Do you?"

"Darcy, we both know someone with that kind of power but she is not a Witch and she has very little reason to want to help us," I tell her. I close my eyes and envision her Pixie face – a Pixie face with its typically large green eyes, a pretty but serious mouth and a shock of reddish-purple hair across her brow from the edge of cornet-shaped purple headgear that covers her ears and fastens about her chin like a helmet. "But perhaps I can reach her and perhaps, just perhaps, persuade her to help us."

Darcy suddenly realizes to whom I am referring and looks at me shocked. "You don't mean that Winx Club techno-geek faerie what's-her-name do you? Are we that desperate that we have to go to a pixie for help?"

"Her name is Tecna, Darcy," I tell her sternly, "and you had better get used to using polite terms if we are to have any hope of getting her help."

Darcy is in the middle of giving me a dirty look which turns into one of disgust as we hear Stormy begin to wail and our noses are seized by the stench of recycled formula.

"Pechhh! That is so totally gross!" gags Darcy.

"Welcome to motherhood," I tell her. "It's your turn to wash and change our Baby Stromy. I'll take care of the bed sheets and afterwards we are going to have to search the Witch-Wide-Web for and Ogre baby diaper service that will deliver to Cloud Tower."


	17. Coping

During the weeks that follow, Darcy and I try to adjust to our new life taking care of Stormy and catering to all her special needs which turns out to be more sweat-of-one's-brow toil than either one of us had ever expected. The villagers back in my village in Italy would marvel to learn that Witches and Faeries do not and simply cannot do everything with magic. There is a great deal of give-and-take with magic. As a result, we have to measure with care how much magic we are going to use for any given task then evaluate with great care just how efficiently each magic energy unit is being used because, at the root of it all, magic is just another form of energy that is just as hard come by and just as easily squandered as any other forms of energy. This is one of my biggest peeves with Bloom. She has my Dragon Fire and is squandering it out of ignorance and lack of training while I, on the other hand, have the wisdom and the training to use it properly but do not possess it. I boil with rage every time I see a fireball fly from that Faerie's hands only to be used to set blazing fires or to bowl my sisters and I out of the sky. It is just a crime! But for now, any thoughts of Bloom are shoved out of my mind and Darcy's while we in the same fashion as our parents, grandparents and even great grandparents care for our woman-child which means for us that cleaning dirty faces and hands, wiping runny noses and leaky, smelly bottoms and cleaning up "oopsies" have to be done with soap and water, a cloth or a brush, and lots of elbow-grease.

Our second problem is that Darcy, Stormy and I, despite our positions as office administrator and assistant professors, are still billeted in the same student dorm complex as we were when we first enrolled at Cloud Tower. Each level in the student residence area of Cloud Tower has fifteen dorms for three students apiece, one common shower and washroom area and a kitchenette. Our dorm does not even rate as a bedsit. It is designed to cram as much into as little space as possible. In it are three average sized beds, three cheese-cutter closets for our clothes, three just barely adequate dresser-vanities, a long study table with lamps built into one wall with shelves and a bit of storage space underneath. A flat-panel video-cum-communicator and ear unit are on the opposite wall and, because I could do it, we have a cold box in which to store a few beverages and some snack food. On the floor space available we are just able to get down two throw mats.

Yet, as three adults, we were still better off than Lucy and Mirta. We were told that they were crammed together in a smaller dorm with only two beds. We used to wonder how they could sleep in their beds. For Mirta, being short and tiny, it is easy enough for her to sleep curled up in the upper part of one bed while Lucy, being tall and lanky, required almost two regular beds to accommodate her body and her long limbs. Darcy and I imagined Lucy sleeping with her head at one end of the bed, her butt at the other end and her legs straight-up supported against a wall. Then Stormy, in one of her rare moments, suggests that could not be it at all. She reasons that Lucy must be able to detach her legs at her waist. That way, she could use one bed for just her legs while her top half slept end-to-end with Mirta in the other. Then Darcy makes the rejoinder that must be why they are so attached to each other despite their differences and constant bickering and then the three of us howl with laughter. Now that we are two adults and one woman-child the inadequacies of or dorm really begin to show.

First of all, when the crate of ogre diapers we ordered for Stormy arrives, the crate is too big to get through the door so it sits in the hallway. The packages of disposable dresses for all of us stuff our closets to capacity. We cannot find a bassinet so we have to put our three beds together so Stormy could sleep between us and not roll off the edge and then wake up the whole floor with her screaming and crying. That you would think is not too bad, but then Stormy discovers that my long tassel of hair makes a nice blanket to wrap herself in and an handful of my tassel provides a nice soft something to stick under her runny nose while she sucks and drools on her thumb. Then one day, during a temper tantrum, Stormy grabs my ponytail and with the strength of an adult yanks out two fistfuls of my beautiful hair by the roots. I let out a screech that brings our neighbours running and banging on our door expecting to open upon a scene of bloody mayhem. It nearly takes a call to Alysoun to have her come knock me out so not to do Stormy bodily harm.

Then there is the feeding. Stormy still has to be bottle fed every four hours around the clock with the one bottle that we have to wash and sterilize after each use. One hour after her bottle she requires a wash and a change. The soiled diapers turn out to be more of a problem than the clean ones. The simple disposal unit on our floor was never designed for the heavy use that we are making of it. It would have been bad enough with normal baby diapers but these are ogre sized with ogre size messes in them. By her fourth bottle each day the disposal unit is overwhelmed. I freeze everything to get rid of the stench until everything can be picked up and disposed of but then the whole floor is invaded by fist-sized black beetles that discover that there is a feast to be had in the disposal. By the third week, there is no need for Darcy and I to put on dark makeup under our eyes because they are already dark with bags from a lack of sleep.

I wake up some morning about then and the first thing I do is step on one of those blasted beetles that squeals in agony as it dies. I let out a surprised yelp which wakes up Stormy who begins wailing and screaming which wakes up Darcy who starts screaming at me to make Stormy stop wailing and screaming which sets me to screaming at Darcy to stop screaming at me. Then I hear many fists beating on our door and angry voices screaming at us from outside to stop screaming then our neighbours above and below get into it banging on the floor and ceiling screaming at all of us on this floor to stop screaming. I open our door to scream at everyone to stop screaming at us and see a sea of Witch Sisters with the look of those who are out to see Darcy, Stormy and I hanging from gibbets surrounding our door. Then, in the midst of all this pandemonium, Bo-Joe, the huge male ogre who delivers Stormy's diapers to us, shows up unannounced carrying a huge crate of clean diapers over his shoulder and sends the whole screaming mob of Witches, who are in various states of dress and undress, screaming and running for their dorms. I put my arm against the doorpost, lean my head on my arm and let out a huge sigh. I hear the sound of someone teleporting in and lift my head to find myself looking into the scowling face of Nell the Cloud Tower property manager. "Icy!" snaps Nell, "you, Darcy, Stormy follow me. You're moving out!"

"It has finally happened," I'm thinking. "There is no way for us out of Cloud Tower so we are being sent to the dungeons there to be left to rot and die screaming mad."


	18. New Accommodations

"Icy!" yells Nell breaking my train of thought. "Did you hear what I just said? Gather your sisters and lets get you three moved. I don't have all day, you know."

"Yeah," I'm thinking, "I bet you can't wait to lock us up down there in the dungeons and throw away the key."

I go into our dorm and pick up Stormy who has gone back to sleep and turning to Darcy say, "Come on, let's get this over with."

Darcy looks at me with eyes of a spirit that has been crushed. She knows we have to follow orders without argument and has resigned herself to doing just that while I fume inside and mentally grit my teeth.

"We're ready," I tell Nell.

"Fine," says Nell then seeing Stormy in my arms asks, "Can she fly?"

"Probably," I tell her, "but she's forgotten how. I will have to carry her to wherever we're going," and under my breath add, "– as if I have to guess."

"Fan-bloody-tastic!" says Nell. "Just try to keep up then, will you."

Nell lifts off and immediately heads up. Darcy looks at me with her eyes wide.

"I don't know, Darcy, just follow her," I tell her and lift off to follow Nell with Stormy in my arms.

We follow Nell up one, two, three, four... five? Six? Seven? Eight? Nine floors! Finally, on the ninth floor up, Nell lands in a hallway where the floor is laid with bright red carpeting and there are only three massive doors.

_"P'tach et-ha-deletim," _Nell commands the double doors in front of us and claps her hands. The doors open onto a room so grandiose that Darcy and I are standing with our mouths agape. "Your new accommodations," announces Nell.

Darcy is the first to recover. "Whoa!" she says, "if we had only been here weeks ago."

"Well, I'm sorry to have kept Her Majesties waiting," says Nell with mock formality, "but it took my staff and I three weeks just to get this place to the specifications demanded and with a lot of magic and cost, might I add."

"Thank you, Nell," I tell her.

"Humph!" snorts Nell, "you can take your thanks and go kiss the hangman for all I care. Thank whomever your friends are in high places for this. Well, I hope you three birdies enjoy your new cage. Now, if you will excuse me, I have to go clean up the mess you've made below. Your stuff will be up shortly," and, although she vanishes in silence, one could almost hear after the flash the words, "And may you three rot in here and die!"


	19. Settling In

"Will they never let it drop?" asks Darcy blinking at the spot where Nell was standing.

"Probably never until everyone who knows or remembers us is dead or until we are granted a pardon from the High Council of the Sisterhood of Witches," I tell her, "and neither is about to happen anytime soon."

I look down at Stormy who is placidly sucking on her thumb while still asleep in my arms. "I think she has the right idea," I tell Darcy. "Perhaps we should do the same. It's been a long time since any of us got a respectable night's sleep besides Stormy's getting heavy. Do you see anything resembling a bedroom?"

"Got that right," agrees Darcy yawning and looking about ready to crash. "There, over there to the right there are three doors with our names on them."

I float over towards the door marked "Stormy" wanting to put her down before my arms break off at the elbows. Darcy pushes the door open and the three of us enter. As we enter the lights come on at just the right brightness for a mother to check in on her slumbering child without waking it. I see at the far end an ogre-sized bassinet and place Stormy within it with a sigh of relief to have her weight off of my arms.

"Presence of a child detected," whispers a gentle female voice that nearly makes me jump. "No record for this child has been created. What is the child's name, please."

"Stormy," I reply and the interrogation goes on for another ten minutes establishing all of Stormy's particulars and our relationships.

"Auto-nanny now configured for Storm-Witch child Stormy," whispers the voice. "Automatic discharge unit is on and functioning normally. Child monitors with all safety protocols active are on and functioning normally. Thank you," concludes the voice.

Meanwhile, while I am programming the auto-nanny, Darcy is checking out the rest of the room exploring all the conveniences it has to offer. I hear delighted squealing and turn around to find out what marvellous thing she has discovered. Is it a long lost book of mystic spells? No. Is it the keys to the ultimate power? No. Is it even a bag of gold? Still no. What she has discovered is the built-in-the-wall diaper changing station equipped with a Stormy-sized changing table, an ogre diaper dispenser and disposal unit, a sink with running water and a goose-neck faucet, and lastly a rack filled with cloths, towels, powders, oils and perfumes – everything a young mother needs to keep her baby's bottom clean, soft, dry and smelling as fresh as a daisy.

"Darcy, you're incorrigible," I tell her. "I sure hope for your sake that Riven wants a large family."

"So do I," whispers Darcy with a wistful look in her softly glowing eyes.

"I need to get to sleep,_ presto_," I tell Darcy. "I'm going to my room."

I enter the room with my name on the door and find that by itself it is as large as the dorm we vacated only hours before. It looks to be luxuriously appointed but at the moment I don't care. I see the soft, inviting bed and take only the time required for me to remove my boots and nothing more before I'm in it and wrapping myself in the soft, warm comforter and drifting off to sleep.

"_Buongiorno, piccolina," _my mother's voice softly greets me. _"È l'ora di svegliarti, Isha. Fa una bella giornata limpida. La tua sorella sta già mangiando la colazione nella cucina."_

"_Si, Mamma," _I respond drowsily. _"Mamma? Mamma! Mamma, dove sei?" _My feet hit the floor and I am running out of the room. _"Mamma," _I'm crying looking frantically around with tears streaming down my cheeks, _"dove sei tu?" _

"Easy, Icy, easy. It's not your mother," I hear Darcy's voice telling me from somewhere then see her floating towards me from what must be the kitchen.

"What?" I ask her sniffling while tears continue to slide down my cheeks.

"I heard you cry out just now in that strange language of yours," says Darcy softly, "and figured the same thing happened to you as it did to me. My mother's voice awoke me this morning too."

"It did?" I ask wiping away tears.

"Yes," Darcy nods, "but I knew that my mother is alive and well on New Witch Haven so what I heard could not be her. It's the voice of one of the many automatrons that seem to run this place. But I see it was a shock for you to hear your mother's voice after so long. I feel for you."

Darcy pauses for a moment and then in a more cheerful voice says, "Hey, you must be famished. You should see all the stuff there is choose from. It's amazing. And the kitchen is like out of this world. Come along," then taking my hand starts floating towards the kitchen.

"Wait a minute. What about Stormy?" I ask realizing how long I was asleep without waking up once to tend to her.

"Fed, washed, changed and keeping herself amused with a whole boxful of toys in the playroom," says Darcy grinning, "I guess the auto-nanny somehow knew that you were in worse need of sleep than I so I was the one who got roused four times during the night for feedings and tending to other needs. I tell you, Icy, this place has everything."

We enter the kitchen and, as Darcy says, it is huge and packed with every modern convenience and contrivance one can imagine and even a few one can't. In the middle is a rectangular table with some sort of auto-server in the middle. There are several chairs around the table including one obviously designed for a child but modified to fit Stormy's body proportions. At one table place are the remains of Darcy's breakfast and beside it is set a place with what is obviously meant to be my breakfast. There is a plate with fruit, raw vegetables, nuts, seeds and a variety of vegetable cheeses. Beside it is a glass filled with the thick, brown and somewhat carob tasting high-protein beverage that serves as milk on the Planet of Alfea. This is my usual breakfast of choice, but for the moment, I find myself standing there with the crust of sleep in my eyes and my stomach still in knots from hearing my mother's voice. But then it rumbles and I do feel pangs of hunger but not for the breakfast at hand.

"Is there anything else to be had?" I ask Darcy.

"Is there!" laughs Darcy. "Just about anything you could want. Try over there," she adds pointing to some cupboard doors behind me.

I turn around and see three sets of cupboard doors with our names inscribed on them. Curious, I go to the one with my name on it and open it. Before me is a sealed cylindrical paper package, two contraptions and a box. I put them down on the counter and then pick up the cylindrical paper package. It is unmarked but there is a string on it which is definitely designed to be pulled to open it. So I do so and – oh Sisters! – the warm, rich aroma that fills the kitchen is sheer delight.

"Coffee!" I cry excitedly to Darcy. "Real coffee from Terra! But how?" I ask with tears once more brimming at my eyes as I quickly pull off the wrapping on the box and find it filled with_ biscotti _and again just not any old biscotti but biscotti rich with the scent of bitter almonds and laced with unsweetened chocolate. My very favourite kind and, at that moment, just what I wanted.

Overwhelmed, I sit down. "Yes, I know but I don't know," says Darcy with a catch in her voice. "It was like when I was awoken this morning by the voice sounding like my mother's and lead here for breakfast," she continues coming over to stand beside me with tears also beginning to well in her eyes. "I found a bowl of warm broth waiting for me and a stack of heavy, round, flat oatmeal breakfast cakes to dunk into it just like home. It is not the kind of breakfast you would want to eat regularly on a planet with the temperate climate of Alfea, but oh, it was such comfort food and just what I needed. It felt like my mother wrapping me up in a warm blanket and hugging me."


	20. Coffee Talk

"So, coffee, eh?" says Darcy blinking back a tear. "Well, let's try some. I've never had it before. I hear it can make you pretty hyper."

"It can if it is the cheap, poorly roasted stuff but this coffee is premium quality dark roast," I tell her while sniffing some of the whole beans I have poured into my hand. "I'm still surprised that you didn't sample some while we were on Terra chasing after Bloom."

"Like we had time to sample any of the local delights," laughs Darcy. "So no, I have never had real coffee. The coffee bush won't even grow on New Witch Haven. It turns out to be a blessing in disguise because when the first settlers tried to import just coffee beans, not only did it cost them an arm and a leg, but also, the native version of a rat would get into it no matter how well protected and stored and once having fed on coffee beans would go berserk. After a number of people died a horrendous death from being swarmed by coffee-crazed rats, real coffee became a banned substance on New Witch Haven. A few years later, the settlers found that an ersatz coffee could be made from a blend of toasted and ground nuts and herbs which were native to the planet and did not send the rats berserk. They still called it coffee but, by the time the second or third generation was born on New Witch Haven, there was no one left alive who remembered real coffee." She pauses for a moment then grinning says, " It might be funny to see some of those pixies revved up on it though."

"Sorry, Darcy, but that won't do it," I tell her.

"Why not?" asks Darcy, disappointed.

"Their metabolism breaks down caffein before it can enter their bloodstream to give them any sort of buzz," I explain. "Also, coffee cherries and beans are of little nutritional value and taste horrid to them. On a Faerie dominated planet such as Alfea, coffee is simply not a crop worth cultivating or worth importing so that's why you don't find it here either. What revs their motors is anything with a high natural sugar and yeast content," I laugh remembering a comical but near tragic incident with Muta.

I am puzzling over the two contraptions. One is a grinder I can tell by looking at the blades through the clear cover and by pressing a button on the side which caused them to spin rapidly. The second, I assumed, is for brewing coffee but was something I had never seen before.

"You first unscrew the two parts," says Darcy, obviously having some knowledge of the device. "There is a funnel-like thing you take out of the bottom part before you fill it with water. About three-quarters full should do it."

I follow Darcy's instructions but when I look confused about what to do next Darcy continues, "Put the funnel back into the bottom. The ground coffee goes into the basket part of the funnel which has a sieve in the bottom to preventing the grains from falling into to water that will come up the spout part. When the top part is screwed back on, another sieve will prevent the grains from getting into the top part. When you put the mocha pot on a heat source to boil, the pressure of the steam created in the bottom chamber forces hot water through the coffee grains brewing the coffee and then forcing the brewed coffee up into the collection chamber at the top."

"Pretty neat," I tell her. "Coffee made without any grains in it."

"How did you brew coffee then?" inquires Darcy looking at me strangely as if how to use a mocha pot should be common knowledge to everyone.

"I would just throw some finely ground coffee into a copper or brass pot called a_ ibriq _and boil it," I explain to her. "That's what the Arabs at port did and, although other contraptions existed, this was the best way. So I used to drink it in little cups as thick and gritty as mud but it was hot, dark and strong and I savoured every drop."

"Hmmm," muses Darcy, "sounds like the way I like my men."

"Darcy!" I exclaim. "Honestly, you've got your mind in a rut, girl."


	21. Domestic Icy

I grind a handful of beans and scoop some into the funnel-like container. The two parts screwed back together, I place it on the boiling plate. "Mocha pot type three detected," says the kitchen automatron in a rich, male voice and again I nearly jump. "Heat adjusted for optimum brewing."

Darcy is still sipping on her first demitasse of coffee but on her third biscotto while I have had only one biscotto but now on my second demitasse of coffee. I find renewed interest in the original breakfast set out for me and, working slowly at it, I nibble my way through the whole plate.

"So, what do you think of real coffee?" I ask Darcy, stretching.

"Neah," says Darcy, waving her hand to indicate her so-so opinion of it. "I would not throw it out in disgust but I wouldn't go crawling across the desert for it either. It actually smells better than it tastes. But these biscotti, as you call them, I could eat a dozen of these."

"You'll get fat doing that," I tell her, grinning mischievously and then stretching again add, "I guess we should clean up then get washed and properly dressed."

"Yeah, I guess so," agrees Darcy but now she is grinning mischievously as she takes a handful of crumbs from the table and deliberately drops them on the floor. I hear and then see a row of little doors along the baseboards snap open and an army of little black things pour out of them. For a moment, I think that it is a re-invasion of those horrid black beetles and cringe but then I see them swarm around the crumbs Darcy has just dropped on the floor brushing them into themselves with little mechanical mandible-like projections in their fronts all the while squeaking and chittering as if to say, "How dare you! How dare you make this mess! Do you think I have nothing better to do than to clean up after the likes of you all day?" Then, the task of cleaning up done, they all file back into their little cubbyholes and in unison the doors all snap shut with a sharp, "Humph!"

"They are like Nell on one of her better days," I laugh.

Darcy is about to reply when the voice of the auto-nanny breaks in. "Storm-Witch child Stormy requires adult supervision," states Nanny in a gentle voice.

"Nanny," enunciates Darcy carefully, "what is the nature of the urgency?"

"No urgency," replies Nanny, "however, Storm-Witch child Stormy has been without direct adult supervision for one hour."

We leave the kitchen and float into the playroom where Stormy is playing happily amongst a mountain of plush toys. She has a blue and white plush bunny in one hand and a purple duck in the other and is playing a child's favourite game of banging two things together while burbling softly to herself. Since the ordeal in the arboretum, Stormy's hair has grown back long enough to cut. Her hair remains its usual blue-black colour but without the yellow lightning bolt streaks on either side and, strangely enough, it has not grown back frizzy but straight. I have cut it to just chin level and trimmed her bangs to mid-forehead. Now she look disturbingly like a little Witch-wannabe we once had to deal with on Solaria name Chimera but, thankfully, without Chimera's perpetually bitchy, spoiled brat expression which drives anyone to wanting to smack her within two seconds. Instead, Stormy has the face of pretty little girl with lovely blue eyes and a sweet smile yet even the girlish face and the loosely fitting dress cannot hide the fact that Stormy is really a young woman at her peak.

Kneeling down to Stormy's level on the floor, I cup her chin and lift up her face. "Hello, sweety", I coo to her. "How are you doing this morning? Is there anything we have to do for you?" I ask sniffing and checking her bottom.

"Oh, puh-leez," groans Darcy, rolling up her eyes. "You sound like Alysoun clucking over her latest brood of chicks or, worse, like that all sugar-and-spice Flora. Gag!" and makes a big production of putting her finger in her mouth and making retching sounds.

"Shut-up, Darcy," I say sweetly so as not to agitate Stormy.

"Well," continues Darcy, acting as if she didn't hear me, "you accuse me of going all domestic now you should see and hear yourself. What's next? Cute little tweeting birdies circling your head as sweet flowers spring up at your feet?"

"Darcy," I growl, "you are treading close to death!" But then I look up and see the wicked and mischievous look on her face. "Get out of here, you brat," I laugh as Darcy's expression becomes even more mischievous.

Meanwhile, Stormy is tugging at my sleeve and holding up the purple plush duck for me to admire. "Yes, nice ducky," I tell her and then I almost do gag realizing what I have just said. Then, while Stormy is still holding this toy in front of me, it becomes animated, blinks at me, smiles and in a disgusting little ducky voice quacks, "Mammy!" I'm immobilized and in shock for a moment until I hear Darcy giggle. I grab the closest thing to me and throw it. I watch the plushy pass through the image of Darcy standing beside me and harmlessly hit the wall behind it. "Cuckoo!" I hear Darcy's voice behind me and turn around to see her head sticking through the doorway. "Cuckoo!" says Darcy again and ducks out just as another toy goes sailing across the room. Then Stormy gets into it, squealing and laughing while she too throws toys across the room as if Darcy and I have been putting on this little charade entirely for her amusement. "Well," I think to myself, "at least Darcy is being more like herself and seems to be over her funk over being forced to break up with Riven."

I look down into Stormy's cheerful little face with its infectious smile and laugh. "Maybe (gag!) Darcy's right, Stormy," I whisper very quietly to her and kiss her cheek, "maybe I have gone domestic and you might make a mother out of me yet."

"Burble goo!" replies Stormy and goes back to her little game of banging two toys together.

Another quick check and I am satisfied that nothing requires doing. "Nanny," I say, imitating Darcy's careful enunciation, "what is Stormy's schedule?"

"Storm-Witch child Stormy will require feeding in one-half hour and bathing in one hour," replies Nanny.

I pick up the scattered toys and place them all at Stormy's feet and, seeing that all is well, I exit the playroom. I find Darcy lounging stretched out on one of the sofas wearing her little square-cut glasses and pretending to be reading a magazine taken from the coffee table beside it. She says nothing but a mischievous smirk still plays at the corner of her lips. She has changed into one of the simple disposable dresses that we have become accustomed to wearing which by its simplicity flatters the lines of her figure, sets off her mysterious jade-green eyes and heightens that aura of dusky, sultry seductiveness that is uniquely hers. Being kith and kin aside and despite at times being a pest, I am reminded again why else I keep her around.


	22. Tokens of bonding and of hate

"Have you seen our stuff from below yet?" I ask Darcy.

"Come to think of it, no," she replies. "It should have come up yesterday according to Nell."

I suddenly remember that Muta's dress is still in its hiding place within one wall of our old dorm and panic when it occurs to me that perhaps Nell might also know the key to these hiding places and upon finding Muta's dress she would only think of it as a rag and throw it out. "I will try to find what's holding things up," I tell Darcy while making quickly for the door.

I hurry out and have fleeting thoughts about who might possibly be our neighbours in the other two apartments on this floor. But only fleeting ones because I am floating as quickly as I can down to our old dorm. I find the door to our old crib wide open and enter quickly in. It has already been emptied out and in a hurry it would seem because the vanity drawers and closets are still open and the empty drawers from Stormy's vanity are sitting on top of her old bed which has been stripped and moved back to its original place. The cold box is gone I notice but it is of little loss in light of all the amenities in our new apartment. I move my old vanity aside to get at the wall behind it whispering a small prayer under my breath. I touch the wall and whisper the one magic word "Muta" and sigh with relief when the tiny recess opens and I see the side of the cedar box that contains Muta's dress. Gently, I remove the box from the recess, open it and find Muta's dress still there as neatly folded and placed with care as I had left it. After all these years, it is still impregnated with the scent of wild flowers and the scent that is uniquely Muta's. "Where are you, Muta?" I whisper sadly. "Are you still alive? Do you miss me as much as I miss you?" and, as if in answer, the ache of our bond within me suddenly flares and then subsides telling me that somehow and somewhere in space and in time Muta is alive and our bond still connects us.

Suddenly aware that someone could enter at any time, I quicky close the box and head back to my new apartment. When I arrive, I am grateful to find that Darcy is not in the main lobby. I go directly to my room and look for a place to hide my box of treasure. I am inspired to go to headboard of my bed and placing a hand against the wall above and behind it I whisper "Muta" and again, as if Cloud Tower had predicted my need, a new recess appears into which I slide the box. "Thank you, Cloud Tower," I whisper as the recess once again becomes a blank wall hiding our secret behind it.

I turn around and see that there are five storage boxes lined up against the wall behind me. Maybe I missed seeing them when I came into my room the first time and I certainly would not have been looking for them when I rushed out early this morning looking for my mother with my eyes full of sleep and tears. I figure that now is as good a time as any to empty them so I pull over the first box which opens with the staccato "pop!" of a storage box designed to keep its contents intact for eons. In it are my possessions but, although nothing is broken, there is the strongest impression that everything was just tossed into it as if the slightest contact with anything of mine would attaint anyone with a horrible, lingering death or worse. As I progress through the second and third box, it becomes more and more obvious that the packer did her job with utmost haste and distaste. My blood boiling, I tear open the forth box and my nose is assaulted with an overpowering stench. Then I feel the sensation of chitinous appendages and see an army of black beetles crawling up from under the lid and out of the box and making their way up my arms and legs. I let out a screech that must have been heard clear to the far side of Alfea and probably bringing great satisfaction to whomever planted this little surprise as I levitate kicking and brushing the beetles from off of my arms and legs. "Ice blast!" I yell, directing the spell full force at the box. "Ice raider!" I then cry invoking another spell that would flush and destroy any beetle that I missed with the initial ice blast.

Darcy bursts into my room. "What is going... eeww!" she cries and then quickly covers her nose and mouth with her hands.

"It looks like someone left us a token of her esteem," I say while using an ice wand to push over the box lid to reveal its frozen contents.

The two of us stare into a box filled with my clothing on top of which is one of Stormy's used ogre diapers, obviously fished out of the disposal, filled to bursting with frozen black beetles, their larvae and pupae. "They _hate _us, Icy!" whimpers Darcy, seeking comfort in my arms. "They all want us _dead! _Icy, I don't think I can take any more of this."


	23. Lineage

I should have expected Darcy would react this way. Darcy had grown up with her sister, Stormy, on the protected planet of New Witch Haven where several generations of Witches had already lived out their lives in peace and without persecution. Yet, despite space and time, Darcy and Stormy's bloodlines are connected to mine. My father, Andrew, we discovered, had a brother named Edward who, like my father, found himself married to a Witch. Edward's wife called herself Kaena and she was a Storm-Witch of Irish and Hispanic blood. Shortly after the birth of their first son, Seamus, a new wave of pogroms broke out on Terra spreading throughout the British Isles and parts of France and focussing mostly on the Gaelic speaking Witches of these regions. This time, the witch hunt resulted in a mass exodus of all these persecuted peoples through a time and space portal to an uninhabited planet with much the same climate, flora and fauna as the Hebrides. Seamus grew up with his parents on the new planet which became known as New Witch Haven. In time he married a Witch maiden named Fiona. Seamus and Fiona had several children including a son named Marcus. Marcus in turn married a Witch maid named Blodwyn who in time gave birth to Darcy and her sister Stormy.

The two sisters grew up in a good and loving extended family that watched over and guided them with a stern and often heavy hand. Even when they reached the age when I was considered already a woman able to take care of her own affairs, Darcy and Stormy were still under their parents' thumb and not even allowed to do so much as smile without their say-so. When they got to Cloud Tower, they were overjoyed to be on their own far away and free from the many restraints put upon them by their ma and da. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed they were only too eager to join me in my quest for the Dragon Fire and unleash years of pent-up frustrations in the form of mischief and havoc against Bloom, her groupies and anyone else who got in our way. When we discovered that we were also related, I became in their eyes a sister to them however distant which cemented the bond among us. Thereafter, we became The Trix, the most powerful trio of Witches in Cloud Tower and on the Planet of Alfea.


	24. Scapegoat

We had our days in the sun – or in the thunder as the Faeries at Alfea College would have it. Well, they have their version and I have mine which is the truth from my perspective at least. There were times that I actually thought I had captured the Dragon Fire from Bloom but they proved to be illusions. And as far as Bloom having beaten me with Dragon Fire during that final battle at Alfea College: that is another of their myths. What beat me was my own arrogance. Blow-for-blow I am on a par with that Faerie Bloom in any magical battle despite her having the Dragon Fire. What really happened is I got too cocky during that last battle over Alfea College and Bloom took full advantage of it to land a smart clip to my jaw and follow it up with a haymaker into my gut after which I doubled up and fell like a comet. To give Bloom credit, she did try to tell everyone the truth but no one would believe her. Darcy and Stormy were already trapped in Faragonda's and Griffin's iron prison unable to witness what transpired and that battle took place too high in the sky over Lake Roccaluce where there was no other Witch or Winx Faerie in the air to see nor where anyone on the ground could see clearly. It just seemed too fantastic to everyone that I could have been defeated by a right hook to the jaw – by a Faerie no less – so she_ must _have defeated me with Dragon Fire. I have given up trying to tell anyone otherwise and now I just don't care anymore. Let the fools believe whatever! I only record the matter here for the sake of leaving a record for when posterity is willing to hear the truth.

"Come," I tell Darcy, "let me get this mess out of here." I blast the container once more to make sure that anything that could creep, crawl or wriggle out of it is dead and then levitate it out of my room onto the balcony. I am tempted to send it over the balcony and have it shatter into a thousand pieces below but anger wells up inside me and so I decide that I will use whatever magic is required to separate the bugs and what from my belongings and more magic to freshen what remained just to spite whomever planted this mess.

We go to Darcy's and Stormy's rooms and also find storage boxes in each. This time, Darcy and I levitate them to the balcony where, before opening them, I blast them to freeze anything alive that might be in there. There is nothing. The "message" was reserved for me because I am the leader of The Trix and to many still a threat. Stormy, now that her condition is common knowledge around Cloud Tower, is no longer seen as a threat. She can no longer help herself let alone help me in my quest for the Dragon Fire. Some say she got only what she deserved. Well, that's just some. Most feel genuine sorrow for her and often ask me after her well-being. Darcy... Darcy, although she did her fair share in causing mischief and havoc, is seen as a naive stooge whom I bossed and coerced into following my orders. While she performs her duties at Cloud Tower's Accounting Department with great efficiency and keeps a low profile, most everyone is willing to excuse her for being part of the formidable Trix. She will no longer be searching for the Dragon Fire with me. To Darcy, blood is thicker than water and a maternal sister's blood thicker still. She has abandoned any hope of obtaining the Dragon Fire and now devotes herself to Stormy's care but, still, she holds onto the hope that with good behaviour she can soften M'Trika's stance and that she will be allowed to reunite herself with Riven. So the blame for all these fiascoes now falls upon my shoulders as well, it seems, for all the other troubles at Cloud Tower whether I am to blame for them or not. And, although technically Darcy, Stormy and I are still a Trix, I am alone. When I open the last box from my room, I find it filled with my books and, apparently, no other surprises. I send it to an out of the way corner of my room. The empty containers, we stack outside our door. In the morning they are gone.


	25. Levina

Over the next few days we begin to settle into our new accommodations. The total grandeur of them is simply too far beyond calling them a "dorm" or "our crib". Besides the main lobby, our individual bedrooms, the kitchen, and the playroom we find that there are individual studies for both Darcy and me, a gymnasium complete with weights, parallel bars, tumbling and yoga mats, rings and vaulting horse and a sauna off to the side, a dining room, an entertainment room, a meditation room and a bath. Darcy is playing the role of the explorer searching into every nook and cranny of our new apartment excitedly reporting back to me with big, bright eyes about every marvel she finds. I am still in a daze that we_ are _here instead of locked away in the deepest, dankest dungeon of Cloud Tower. My mind is occupied with thoughts of how and why we are here but Darcy just accepts it all as if this is the perfectly natural thing to have happen and as if it should have happened long ago.

A month after moving, I am placidly asleep one night when the alarm goes off and Nanny's voice informs me that Stormy is in distress. "Why, for the Goddess' sake can't this happen at a decent hour?" I grumble, getting out of my bed and grabbing my nightgown on the run. I rush into Stormy's room to her screaming and crying as if she had seen a banshee. Darcy is already in the room holding and rocking her and trying to calm her down.

"What's going on?" I ask Darcy.

"She woke up and didn't know where she was," says Darcy. "Then she heard Nanny I guess and thought that she was a ghost."

"How do you know that?" I ask.

"She told me," says Darcy.

"She's talking!" I ask, astonished.

"Stormy, are you back with us?" I ask in Witchspeak and although Stormy turns her head she obviously does not understand my words.

"Stormy, you are safe. You are with Darcy and me," I tell her but this time she looks at me strangely as if something is not right and then reaches out for Darcy. Darcy takes Stormy into her arms and murmurs softly to her in a language I have never heard her speak before that night.

"What language is that you are speaking to her?" I ask Darcy.

"Gaelic," replies Darcy, "or at least the dialect of Gaelic we speak on New Witch Haven. When I entered, Stormy was screaming in it about a spook being in the room and without thinking I just replied to her in the same language. It's our mother tongue. We only started learning Witchspeak when we were five and then never spoke it much."

Stormy is clinging onto Darcy for dear life but seems to be less frightened. "Stormy," I whisper to her, trying to make my voice as gentle and soothing as possible. Stormy turns to look at me but, again, it is obvious that she is only reacting to the sound of my voice but not understanding a word being spoken to her. Then it occurs to me that her real name is no more "Stormy" than mine is "Icy". "Levina," I whisper and am rewarded with a quick turn of Stormy's head towards me and a shy smile.

"Leffi," says Darcy and is rewarded with an even quicker turn of Stormy's head and a bigger smile.

"Leffi?" I say, my hand over my mouth and giggling despite myself.

"What's so funny?" asks Darcy defensively.

"Say her name with an Alfean accent and maybe you'll get it," I tell her.

Darcy tries but, although she says it correctly several times, she is unable to grasp its meaning. "I don't get it," she finally says sounding frustrated and a tad peeved, "besides, you're the one who is into learning all these dumb pixie languages not I."

"Alfean is a Faerie, not a Pixie, language," I tell her, "nonetheless, 'Leffi' in Alfean means 'Faerie of Light'."

"You're joking!" replies Darcy, giggling herself. "If that's not irony."

"What else does she know?" I ask Darcy. "Does she know who we are now?"

Darcy utters a mouthful of syllables of which I can only make out "Hravyn" which is her real name. Stormy reacts by looking all around the room then looks confused at Darcy and shrugs her shoulders. Darcy continues to talk to Stormy at times pointing to herself and me. Stormy talks back to her less timidly and no longer exhibiting any fear. She suddenly wraps her arms about me and looks up at me with a shy smile and lights in her blue eyes. "Yes, you are my precious Little One," I tell her while rocking her in my arms although I am certain she has not understood a word of what I have said.

"So what does she know?" I ask Darcy.

"She thinks I'm her Aunt Mim," she replies. "Her real Aunt Mim is long in her mould but I do look a lot like her."

"What did she say when you asked where you were?" I ask.

"She thinks that I'm still a girl and you are the 'nice lady'," laughs Darcy.

"Then she most likely thinks that she is also a little girl. She'll be in for a shock when she sees herself in the mirror," I say, amused but wondering how traumatic it will be for Stormy to learn that she is really a young woman.

"Maybe and maybe not," says Darcy. "I don't think there is anyway she can miss even now that she has a woman's breasts and figure. But her memories and ability in Gaelic are that of an eight-year old."

"Well, an eight-year old girl is way better than a six-month infant," I reply, "and that is still quite a leap. Perhaps Alysoun was wrong in her prognosis."

"Thank the Goddess for that if it's true," is Darcy's careful reply.

"I'll take any improvement we can get," I tell her while in my mind I go over again my plan to get that Faerie Tecna to do a scan of Stormy which I hope might enlighten us further on her condition. In the midst of my thoughts I start yawing.

"Nanny," I say automatically calling to Stormy's personal automatron, "what time is it and what is Stormy's schedule?"

"It is the third hour, standard, normal wake time for Storm-Witch Stormy is in four hours, standard," replies Nanny, which despite her gentle voice sets Stormy to shrieking in terror and clinging onto Darcy.

"Well, we know now what frighted her," says Darcy while rocking Stormy and murmuring soothingly to her.

This brings up another problem. "Nanny," I say, "adjust Stormy's linguistic parameters to include New Witch Haven Gaelic."

"Linguistic parameter change is not immediately possible," replies Nanny apologetically in Witchspeak while Stormy looks around, her eyes wide with wonder. "A requisition for the required language unit has been issued."

I request a mild sedative for Stormy which arrives at the dispenser as a warm drink in a spill-proof glass. It does not take much to encourage her to drink it down but then she surprises us by asking Darcy if she can go to the WC. Darcy leads her to her private unit which she uses and flushes without instruction and then dutifully washes her hands afterwards as, again, I thank the Goddess for small miracles. We tuck Stormy back into her bassinet. Darcy looks at me with the expression of one about to fall asleep on her feet.

"Go to bed," I tell her, "I'll stay with her until she's asleep."

"Thank you," sighs Darcy, gratefully. "Call me if you need me," she says and exits.


	26. In the Bathhouse

The next morning, Darcy comes into Stormy's bedroom to check on her and finds me also there sitting on a chair with my head resting against the hood of Stormy's bassinet sound asleep and Stormy holding onto my hand also sound asleep.

"Rise and shine, beautiful," says Darcy shaking my shoulder. "We have to get Stormy washed, fed and dressed. Alysoun called to say that she will be here in an hour for Stormy's weekly checkup." Darcy rouses Stormy and the three of us share hugs and kisses as we greet each other for the morning.

I suddenly decide that this morning I want more than a quick once-over in the sonic shower. "Maybe this morning we can introduce Stormy to the bath," I suggest to Darcy.

"Not a bad idea," replies Darcy, "but we have to hurry if Alysoun is arriving shortly."

"Have you known Alysoun to be in a hurry to do something or to go somewhere when there's a chance for her bathe herself in our bath?" I ask Darcy. "Besides, there's ample room for the four of us if she wants to join us."

"True," laughs Darcy, "I've never yet known Alysoun pass up a chance for a splash in our oversized birdbath. Shall we get to it then?"

We lead Stormy to the bathhouse where the bath large enough to be called a small swimming pool. It was a shock to me the first time there when I recognize it as almost a literal reproduction of the underground pool that Muta and I once shared complete with a warm waterfall and luminous holographic fish. I was standing there in awe wondering how this could be when I thought heard the thrum of dragonfly wings behind me. "Mut..." I start to say and then turning around realize that it is only Darcy who teleported herself in behind me. Darcy, thinking I was about to ask, "Who is it?" in Witchspeak, blinks, shrugs and replies, "Who else would it be? Or do you really miss me that much so soon?"

Today it is Stormy who is all full of excitement as we lead her to the edge of the bath. Darcy, as usual, is the first one into the warm water and is making her way to the side where the dispenser for soaps, perfumes, sponges, towels and other bath paraphernalia is located.

"Sandalwood oil!" exclaims Darcy with delight while holding up a vial of the costly ointment. "Icy, this is crazy!" she adds as she quickly selects other items from the dispenser and lines them up along the edge of the bath. Satisfied, she turns to Stormy and calls her into the water. I follow behind guiding Stormy as she makes her way to Darcy. Within seconds, we are surrounded by luminous holographic fish as we stand together in the middle of the bath.

"Why don't you do her hair and back and I'll do her front," suggests Darcy, shoving the bottle of shampoo and a sponge into my hand, "then afterwards we can wash each other."

We are in the middle of lathering and scrubbing Stormy when Alysoun teleports into the bathhouse. "I thought I would find you three here," she chirps in her Avian dialect of Witchspeak. "Mind if I join you?"

"Not at all," replies Darcy to the Avian Witch healer. "Always room for one more."

Alysoun steps into the water and make her way to us. "I hear there has been a significant change in Stormy's condition," she says.

"Yes," Darcy and I say together. Then Darcy goes on to explain, "She has regained her ability to talk and also an edited version of some of her childhood memories."

Alysoun replies with a musical glide which means, "Really?" She turns to Stormy. "Hello Stormy," she coos in Witchspeak while brushing Stormy's cheek with the soft feather edge of her wing. "How are you doing, sweety, is there something we need to do for you this morning?" she continues while Darcy looks at me and smirks and I contemplate sending a cold slush-ball into her face. Stormy, although unafraid, stands gawking blankly at Alysoun not understanding a word being said to her. Alysoun turns to me tilting her head sharply to one side which means, "What gives?"

"She only understands Gaelic," cuts in Darcy before I can reply, "and she now goes by the name Leffi."

"Leffi?" chirps Alysoun with a trill which is her way of giggling and I bite my tongue sarcastically at Darcy. Darcy does nothing in reply until I mistakenly turn my back to her just then to ask Alysoun a question and the brat seizes the moment to grab a towel and flick it to score a stinging smack to my buttocks.

"Ouch! I'm going to get you, wiotch!" I scream at Darcy, turning and pushing her backwards into the water then diving after her. Darcy offers little resistance as we scrap, splash and tussle in the water for she knows fair well that it is only our manner of roughhousing it a bit with each other and letting off steam without doing any real harm. Alysoun, however, mistakes our rough play for a real set-to between us and quickly steps in to break it up by grabbing each of us by the arm with a taloned hand, separating us and then scolding us roundly in her own Avian language as if we were her two fledglings. We stand before Alysoun sheepishly accepting our scolding with an apology and a promise to behave then our attention turns once more to Stormy.

Alysoun decides that the bathhouse is as good a place as any to conduct her examination. We rinse off Stormy who has been standing all this time in waste-deep water with her hair full of shampoo then we guide her out of the bath, wrap her in towels and seat her down on one of the many wooden benches that are along the perimeter of the bath. Alysoun brings over her bag but does not open it immediately but starts her examination first by putting an ear against Stormy's chest to listen to her heart with her acute hearing. Meanwhile, Stormy is making things difficult for Alysoun by running her fingers with childlike curiosity through Alysoun's head feathers, brushing her down feathered cheeks and exploring the outline of her delicate beaklike mouth. Alysoun tolerates this with great patience allowing Stormy to explore her neck, flat chest and down covered arms, however, when a curious hand reaches out for her wings with the probable intention of yanking out a fistful of feathers, Alysoun quicky grabs it while snapping her wings backwards and out of harm's way. In the process she sheds a flight feather which spirals to the floor and glides under the bench. Alysoun, seemingly unperturbed by the loss of the one feather, continues her examination of Stormy while Darcy acts as an interpreter. Her examination done, Alysoun reaches under the bench for the iridescent indigo-blue flight feather and presents it to an overjoyed Stormy as her reward for her cooperation during the remainder of her physical examination.

"She appears to be in perfect health," Alysoun reports to us, "but I'm still unable to probe her skull to determine if there has been any change. Have you had any luck finding a Witch who might help you with that?"

"I have someone in mind," I hesitantly tell Alysoun, reluctant to bring up a subject that has become a real source of contention between Darcy and me, "but she's not a Witch."

"She's one of those dorky Alfea College pixies," snarls Darcy nastily, "and I want nothing to do with her."

"Who?" asks Alysoun.

"Tecna," I tell her.

"Yes... yes!" says Alysoun, first with contemplation and then with approval. "She's the Faerie from Binous, I believe, and her people are in all respects among the best and most renowned surgeons and physicians in the quadrant. I would urge you to go ahead with your plan to approach her. Odds are even that she'll say either 'yes' or 'no' but at least you can be sure she won't say 'maybe'."

"What?" says Darcy angrily unwilling to believe what she's hearing. "No way will I get on my knees to a pixie and grovel for help!"

"You may have no choice, Darcy," replies Alysoun even-temperedly. "If you love Stormy and want to see her well then for her sake I suggest that you amend you attitude, eat a goodly slice of humble pie and then gracefully accept any help Tecna offers you."

Darcy continues to furiously debate the issue with Alysoun. I've heard it all before so I try to shut it out because I decided long ago that Stormy will see Tecna with or without Darcy's approval, nevertheless, in my mind I am uttering a prayer to the Goddess that perhaps Alysoun can get Darcy to see reason where I failed. If she can, it will make things a lot easier. Meanwhile, there is also the matter of how and when to contact Tecna.

I turn my gaze to Stormy who is sitting quietly on the bench unaware that she is the object of this debate. A mist is billowing from off of the warm water of the bath party obscuring Stormy's feet and blotting out much of the background behind her as she explores the sensation of Alysoun's feather against her skin brushing it over her forehead, her cheeks, her neck and down her arms. Then, holding it at its very end between her thumb and middle finger, she glides it down between her firm, young breasts and holds it there. At that very moment, with her skin radiant and dewy, she turns her woman-child's face towards me and with the blue light of new intelligence softly smoldering in her eyes and her mouth slightly open to show the tip of her delicate pink tongue against the edge of her perfect teeth she steals my breath away.


	27. Exploding Fruit

The change in Stormy's condition makes an immediate improvement in the quality of life for the three of us. As an eight-year old, Stormy can now take care of dressing herself and her own personal hygiene which relieves both Darcy and me of a great burden. She is also off the mostly liquid convalescent diet that Alysoun had her on and eats regular food at normal hours seated at the kitchen table with Darcy and me. She has grown accustomed to the voices of Nanny and the other automatrons and does not go into a fit of the screaming meemies every time one of them speaks to us but the promised upgrade that allows the automatrons to converse with her in New Witch Haven Gaelic is, as yet, still held up somewhere in the tangle of bureaucratic red-tape and interplanetary customs so I have to rely on Darcy to interpret for me. But still, it means the months of round-the-clock surveillance and the crazy feeding and care schedules for Stormy are finally at an end and everyone can get her ten hours of uninterrupted sleep. That alone is a great blessing. Within weeks the bags under our eyes are gone, we have lost the haggard, worn-out look about us and even our outlook on life in general has improved despite still being prisoners within Cloud Tower.

Stormy continues to cause us problems for Darcy and me in other ways. Despite the spacious new living quarters we are emotionally wrung-out from months of taking care of Stormy and even from having to look at each other's faces. We are in bad need of away time from each other. For about two weeks, we alternated days off. Then one day, I return to the apartment that afternoon to an aroma of stewing fruit and a scene of pandemonium.

Darcy is standing in front of the kitchen door screaming a torrent in Gaelic while intermittent flashes can be seen inside the kitchen. Darcy had brought Stormy into the kitchen for her regular mid-afternoon snack and had seated her on a regular chair rather than the one designed for her which held a discharge unit which maintained her accumulated electrical charge at a safe level. Stormy has been rediscovering her storm powers bit by bit but the discharging kept her from becoming uncontrollable and causing any real damage. This afternoon, however, because of Darcy's oversight, Stormy has a full charge and decides to test out her powers by zapping one by one all the fruit in a large bowl on the kitchen table and squealing in childlike glee as each piece first boils and then explodes into steaming pulp that splatters all over. Darcy, not being a Storm-Witch and therefore lacking the special natural shielding of Storm-Witches that would have allowed her to take Stormy in hand, is unable to do anything but keep herself at a distance out of harm's way and scream at Stormy at the top of her lungs to stop but to no avail.

"Ice chrysalis!" I shout invoking the spell that shields me from Stormy's electrical powers. I enter the kitchen and grab Stormy by the arm and try to manipulate her into her chair with the discharge unit. Stormy, however, has come to know the meaning of the chair and struggles knowing that her fun is about to come to an end. I hold her while she screams and kicks at my shins which I know the chrysalis can withstand but when she goes for trying to bite my arms, where I know the chrysalis is vulnerable, I have no choice but to smack hard across the face. This has the desired effect and I pick her up and force her into her special chair. I hold her there, glowering and sulking, while the chair does its job. The house mice, as we have come to call them, are pouring out of their holes to clean up the mess Stormy has created. Satisfied that the chair has done its job, I take Stormy by the arm, lead her out of the kitchen and hand her over to Darcy.

"Take care of her," I order Darcy, "I need to go cool off."


	28. For the Precious Little One

I'm siting on my bed in my room with my face in my hands shaking and feeling anger and remorse at the same time. Never before have I had to strike Stormy, my precious Little One. But never before have I had to deal with a child without so much as a language in common through which we can communicate. Even in the midst of our bitterest arguments, Stormy and I had always had language and adult reasoning to help us resolve our differences. But this is like trying to reason with a wild animal that only knows to lash out when it feels threatened. I come to the realization that I am grieving for Stormy as she once was. Although still here in body, the personality that was Stormy is gone. She is a much stolen away from me as Muta and my mother. Now I am saddled with this child – whom I might as well call Leffi – whom I will have to train to control her storm powers before she starts using them to unleash total mayhem with every emotional outburst. Normally, I would feel honoured to train a new Witch to use her unique powers but at this moment it feels more like another trap to keep me captive within the confines of Cloud Tower and reminds me only too much of a similar situation I face with a certain redheaded Faerie named Bloom.

Without looking, I flop backwards on my bed seeking a comfortable position while I try to come up with a plan to work out this hairball but suddenly I sit up straight when something hard with a sharp end digs into my back. I turn around and find two small silver boxes on the bed that I swear were not there before.

"It seems that my secret admirer has decided to make her presence felt," I say to myself as I open the nearest box and find it filled with the signature three dark chocolates. But I'm not in the mood for chocolate just then so I put the box on my dresser. I open the other box and first find a little scroll of paper which I open and read, "For the precious Little One."

"This is weird!" I tell myself for I am the only one who refers to Stormy as her "precious Little One." And again, the message is not in Witchspeak or Alfean but in Italian. Who in all of Alfea knows Italian other than me? Who is it who knows all these intimate things about me?

I peer into the box and find a piece of jewellery which I begin to lift out. There is a lot more to it than meets the eye like some sort of fine silver-blue metal filament net with parts that correspond to one's limbs and spine with fasteners for the ankles and wrists. There is a part the loops over the head and ends with some sort of locket. I lay it out on my bed which confirms that it could have only been made for Stormy.

"How opportune," I'm thinking, "just the little something I need to appease Stormy." I call to my personal automatron to locate Darcy and to summon her to my room with Stormy. Within seconds, Darcy, looking uneasy, teleports into my room with a very repentant Stormy in tow.

"Oh, stop looking so cowed," I tell her smiling and adding a goodly jot of good humour to my voice. "I haven't called you in here for a tongue-lashing. In fact, I have a surprise for Stormy that I need your help with."

"Oh?" says Darcy then turns to Stormy to tell her what I just said. They chatter back and forth for a moment and Stormy's eyes begin to glow and then she smiles at me shyly.

We start by stripping Stormy and get her to stand with her arms and her legs apart. I put the top part over her head and use it as a support point while Darcy and I working on either side first attach the wrist fasteners and then the ankle fasteners. Then we stand looking askance at each other.

"Well, that does not seem to have accomplished much," says Darcy stating the obvious. "What do you think it is supposed to be?"

"It appears that we have it on right," I reply, "and my first guess is that it is a talisman of some sort but for or against what I can't guess."

"I haven't a clue either," says Darcy shrugging her shoulders and looking confused and disappointed while Stormy's face also reflects an air of letdown. "Perhaps there is a chant to be said over it."

"That's a possibility," I reply going back to the scroll to take a second look but finding nothing. I check the box again for an additional scroll or text but again turn up nothing.

I look again at the locket at the end of the net. "It appears to be meant to hold something but what? Not an image, it would appear, but perhaps a stone or a jewel or a crystal?

"A Whisperian crystal?" say Darcy and I together as the same idea dawns on the both of us.

"Darcy," I ask, "do you think you can get Stormy to call up her Whisperian crystal but use a neutral call-up chant?"

"I think we can manage that," replies Darcy. Then turning to Stormy, they both start into a chant that sounds soft, melodic yet ancient and smelling of ferns and peatmoss. When the crystal appears, I urge them to slide it into the locket and that it appears is all it was waiting for, for before we can even say so much as "Urk!", the net and crystal start glowing and then melt into Stormy's skin until all that can be seen is the outline of her Whisperian crystal just below her collarbone.

"Goddess, Stormy! Are you all right?" I ask near panic and forgetting she does not understand a word of Witchspeak.

Stormy stands before Darcy and me with a serene look on her woman-child's face, a comely smile gracing her sweet lips and a soft glow in her blue eyes while speaking softly and melodically to Darcy.

"What's she saying?" I ask impatiently.

"She's saying that she feels wonderful," replies Darcy with a soft and gentle expression beaming on her face. "She says she feels wonderful, tranquil, at peace and that for once the thunder and lightning have stoped raging in her head."


	29. O Radiant Jewel Amongst The Stars

"What were you thinking, Icy!" scolds Alysoun the next morning when she visits and I tell her of the net talisman and how it melted into Stormy's body. "You took a terrible risk putting that thing on her like that," she continues, emphasising her word with gestures and agitated flapping of her wings. "It could have been meant to kill her. You should have at least cast an_ Ostende Mihi _spell on it before putting it on Stormy."

"I had no reason to mistrust the source of this gift," I reply defensively. "If my admirer wanted us dead, she could have done it months ago. If the net talisman was meant to kill Stormy, why haven't I been done in by any of her gifts to me?" I add pointing out my new etched silver dragon motif gorget with its inlaid bits of red sapphire to represent the dragon's eye and the dragon's fiery breath – a gift from her that I now wear in place of my Gloomix talisman.

"I don't know," replies Alysoun, letting out a sigh, "nevertheless, you should be more careful."

"So, what does this net talisman do? Can you tell us that much, Alysoun?" asks Darcy bringing the conversation back to more practical matters.

"I have done a sonic probe into the parts of Stormy's body that I can look into," explains Alysoun. "The network has sent tendrils from itself into most every organ of Stormy's body. These tendrils appear to be bleeding off electrical energy from her organs and routing it to the Whisperian crystal which now acts as an accumulator and a discharge unit as well. When the Whisperian crystal has a surplus of energy, it releases it harmlessly as light."

"That sounds like wonderful news to me," I reply, smiling. "It looks like there will be no more need for discharge bracelets or a special chair or a special bed with a built-in discharge unit. Stormy has her freedom and we have back ours to a degree. It also seems to have done wonders for her disposition. I've never seen her so relaxed and cheerful in my life."

"True," says Darcy, a little more dubiously, "but this talisman may very well spell Stormy's ruin as a Storm-Witch."

"Perhaps other talents will emerge," replies Alysoun to Darcy's misgivings about Stormy. "I have often heard you say how she has moments of uncanny clairvoyance and Icy also mentioned to me her inventiveness. Perhaps these talents will develop now that her mind has quieted and she can concentrate fully on them."

"I guess it is all wait and see," I sigh, "but Stormy as we once knew her is no more... and this new person... we might as well call her Leffi."

I hear singing coming from the livingroom. One voice is Stormy's sweet, young soprano but the other... I hesitate to believe what I'm hearing. "I thought that Stormy could start relearning Witchspeak by learning some simple songs," says Darcy. "Shall we join her?"

We find Stormy in the livingroom curled up on a love seat singing her heart out while her Whisperian crystal pulses in cadence. The second voice is that of the automatron we have come to call Housekeeper. Housekeeper's voice, although singing in flawless Witchspeak, is a perfect imitation of the mature soprano belonging to Miss Faragonda, the headmistress of Alfea Collage. One thing I have to say for Miss Faragonda is that Faerie can sing. Our Miss Griffin could not hold a tune in a basket even if her life depended on it. Yet, it is a riot to hear Miss Faragonda's voice singing the Alfean Planetary Anthem,_ O Radiant Jewel Amongst The Stars,_ as a duet with Stormy – and in Witchspeak no less.

"Well, done, Stormy!" praises Darcy first in Witchspeak then repeats it in Gaelic. "Ladies, shall we sing harmony with Stormy?" And so the five of us make beautiful music together. Stormy and Housekeeper sing a soprano descant while I sing the mezzo melody, Darcy sings tenor harmony and Alysoun warbles and trills a ground.

"Hey, we make a pretty good quintet," I say and the others agree. "Perhaps with a few more voices, we could have rocking Witch choir."

"That's not a bad idea," says Darcy slyly, "but I wouldn't invite Lupa to sing with us when any of the moons are full or else all we'll ever hear from her is 'Aaaa-rooo!'"


	30. A Tale of Dragon Fire

A few days later, I am in the kitchen cooking when Alysoun drops by for a social visit. The two of us are chatting together like a pair of housewives comparing notes on our children. I give Alysoun a brief account on Stormy's progress and she tell me the latest news about her last brood that left the nest about a year ago.

"What are you cooking?" asks Alysoun as delicious aromas fill the air.

"Tarantula and split-pea soup – one of Stormy's favourites," I tell her. "Care for a taste?" I ask offering her a ladleful.

"This is delicious!" chirps Alysoun but there is a great deal more to it than just tarantula meat and split peas. What else is in it?"

I list the ingredients as Alysoun nods her feather-crested head as I name them. "Very well done," she remarks. "That is the exact combination of insect and vegetable protein, herbs, spices and electrolytes I myself would recommend to keep a young body healthy and to help a convalescent body regain strength. You know more about medicine and healing herbs than you have lead me to believe, Icy. Who has been training you?"

"My mother was training me to be a healer before she was cut down," I tell her, my voice and insides shaking despite myself.

"Well, I think that healing is your calling. This is the path you should be following instead of this quest of yours for the Dragon Fire," states Alysoun.

"But the Dragon Fire belongs to me!" I rage, the memory of M'Trika's verbal smack-down still fresh and stinging in my mind. "All my research indicates that I am to be the Witch Guardian of the Dragon Fire. I put in seven years of hard study and training to prepare myself to fulfil that role and then this untrained, upstart pixie Bloom just shows up with it," I tell her, feeling outraged, frustrated and cheated. "Why should I have received the promise and why have I had to go through all this training and preparation just to see the power go to her? It's so unfair!"

"Yes, I've heard that argument before. But putting that aside for a moment, what would you do with the Dragon Fire if you did have it that Bloom is not doing now?" asks Alysoun.

"O Alysoun, what I couldn't do with it. Dragon Fire goes far, far beyond just using it to create fireballs to blast everything out of existence," I tell her.

"Go on," says Alysoun.

"It can be used to heal, Alysoun. It can be used to rejuvenate a weak body, restore eyesight, repair limbs and to root out and cure people from malignant growths. It can restore life to frozen planets like Sparx and it can be used to communicate. Not just across galaxies or in this universe, Alysoun, but across time and dimensions far beyond anything we can imagine and this is just barely scratching the surface of its potential for even with my years of study, I have barely begun," I tell her, looking starstruck and dreamy-eyed.

"That is something I wasn't even aware of," remarks Alysoun. "But tell me, Icy, how does a guardian usually obtain the Dragon Fire?"

"I have read," I tell her, "that the Great Dragon herself endowed the first Witch Guardian with the Dragon Fire and thereafter it was handed down the bloodline to which I belong. Therefore, in time, it should have fallen to me. But now, somehow, this Faerie Bloom has it."

"That is true, but you only have part of it," replies Alysoun. "Now let me tell you something that has not been written in any manuscript or scroll I know of but is part of the oral tradition of Avian Witches."

"Long ago," begins Alysoun, "the Great Dragon thought to share some of her power with other sentient beings of the universe. She gave a splinter of power to the Witches, a splinter to the Humans, and a splinter to the Faeries and each of these groups had its own Guardian of the Dragon Fire. The Great Dragon also dictated that the individual splinters of her power would be unique to each group only following the line of its original guardian and that it would seek out the next living representative of each line in each progressive generation or return to the Great Dragon.

The centuries rolled by and each group waxed strong in the use of the Dragon Fire but, bye and bye, the Witches became dissatisfied with the bit of the Dragon Fire they possessed and petitioned the Great Dragon for more. The Great Dragon, however, refused their request knowing well the Witches were contentious and power-hungry lot. But the Witches took umbrage at this and waged war against the Humans thinking to subdue them and steal their splinter of the Dragon Fire having forgotten the Great Dragon's rule of inheritance. The Humans fought back and soon because of the fighting the Humans became just as black-hearted and cruel as the Witches who attacked them.

Finally, the Great Dragon put and end to the bloodshed and carnage by calling the Human Guardian and the Witch Guardian into her presence. "Because you have chosen to fight among yourselves," she tells them, "and have not chosen to use my gift of Dragon Fire wisely, I am taking it away from you. Never again will Humans or Witches posses a splinter of my Dragon Fire until you have evolved and prove yourselves worthy of my trust." Well, the two guardians wailed and protested and pleaded with the Great Dragon for another chance – especially the Witch Guardian Ardala – but the Great Dragon remained adamant in her decision. Thus, it was that only the Faeries were to keep their splinter of Dragon Fire.

Again, the centuries passed and the Humans soon forgot that they ever possessed a splinter of the Dragon Fire. Even their books and manuscripts on the Dragon Fire mouldered into dust along with their memories. The Witches, however, because of their much longer lifespans, kept the memory of their possession of the Dragon Fire alive, especially Ardala who looked to the Faeries with jealous and envious eyes. Yet, Ardala knew that she could never raise her hand against the Faeries for she was aware that the Great Dragon would be on guard for any mischief from her. So she busied herself by codifying in enchanted manuscripts all the knowledge the Witches had amassed as well as all the secrets about the Dragon Fire she could steal from the Faeries and, as she watched the Faeries perform greater and yet greater miracles with the Dragon Fire, her hatred of all Faeriekind deepened – a hatred she passed to her daughters which eventually spread throughout all Witchkind.

Eventually Ardala, the one time Witch Guardian of the Dragon Fire, died and shortly after the secret to reading her enchanted manuscripts was lost and so too it was believed were her manuscripts as well. But the hatred of Faeriekind passed down from Witch generation to Witch generation with the reasons for this hatred growing ever dimmer except that it had something to do with Faeries having the Dragon Fire. Finally, an especially powerful Trix of Witches call the Ancestresses decided that only an attack on Sparx where Daphne, the Faerie Guardian of the Dragon Fire, resided and her death before there was an heir for her to pass the Dragon Fire on to would settle the Witch vendetta. But the Ancestresses were unaware Daphne's newborn sister to whom she passed on her splinter of the Dragon Fire before they could reach her. Daphne chose death rather than betraying to the Ancestresses the name and location of the Faerie who now possessed the Dragon Fire so they slew Daphne and also destroyed and froze the entire Planet Sparx believing they also slew the new Faerie Guardian of the Dragon Fire in the process.

We now know as fact that the Ancestresses failed in their both their missions and the true Faerie Guardian along with her splinter of the Dragon Fire survived and flourishes to this day. We even know her now by her name which is Bloom," concludes Alysoun.


	31. A Bitter Pill

I am fascinated by Alysoun's story but then become rapidly discomforted by its implications. "So it seems that the fable has some grounds in truth," I sigh showing my unease.

"In the light of this," replies Alysoun, "the sliver of the Dragon Fire the Bloom possesses truly belongs to Bloom. Bloom came by her sliver of the Dragon Fire honestly through her bloodline so you were wrong to try to take it away from her despite your feelings. You were wrong to attack Red Fountain and Alfea College. But, most of all, you were wrong to start a war that not only pitted Witches against Faeries but also turned Witch sister against Witch sister."

"Wait just a minute, Alysoun," I protest. "Just whose side are you on?"

"Your side, my sweet," replies Alysoun lightly brushing my cheek with the edge of her wings.

"But so what if Bloom is the true Faerie Guardian of the Dragon Fire? What of the promise made to me," I whisper almost bursting into tears, "the promise that I am to be the Witch Guardian of the Dragon Fire?"

"I believe it will be fulfilled," says Alysoun. "And I think that someone else believes it will too because I am sure that you are going discover that that gorget about your neck is more than just a pretty trinket."

"Icy, my sweet," which is the way Alysoun addresses me when she is about to begin a lecture, "you are the most talented, skillful and knowledgeable Witch in Cloud Tower, the Planet of Alfea and beyond. This is all well and good and to be admired. But... what you lack and are in sore need of is wisdom. It is wisdom that guides the rest and without it, you are predestined to keep making the same kind of mistakes as you did with Bloom and the Winx Club Faeries, Lord Darkar and Baltor which only end in disaster for you and others. Yes, wisdom does come with life experiences but it also come from listening to and learning from those who are already wise. You would do well to sit at Lady Griffin's and M'Trika's feet and to gain from their experience. It may be a good idea to begin rebuilding bridges to such people while the opportunity is still there."

I turn and busy myself stirring the soup as tears trickle silently down my cheeks. She is right and I am betwixt anger with Alysoun for pointing out the obvious to me and shame for having failed so badly.

"Hey, it is not as black as all that," says Alysoun. "Youth is allowed its few mistakes and wrong turns. The question now is what do you intend to do to make restitution to all you have harmed and what new path do you envision for yourself to obtain wisdom and enlightenment?"

"I don't know what new path to follow for myself," I tell her, "because everything I was planning to do and to become has turned to dust. But I have always loved learning and teaching and even Lady Griffin and Professor Zarathustra have praised me as being the best new professor at Cloud Tower in ages. I could always continue to teach."

"Yes, you could do that," agrees Alysoun, "but you are missing something obvious... a skill your mother saw in you and for which you can use the Dragon Fire to its best advantage when you obtain it."

"Become a healer?" I ask half stating and half questioning.


	32. Vengence is Served

"Exactly," confirms Alysoun. "Surely you remember from you mother the first edict of witchcraft."

"She used to repeat to me that witchcraft was to be used only to help all and to harm none," I tell her.

"Harm none" words my mother believed in so much so that she sacrificed herself to be burned at the stake so I could escape rather than use witchcraft against our attackers. But few years after my rescue by Alysoun and her party, I return to my village in Italy in my new guise and put up with the cat calls, wolf whistles and endless pinching from the men and jealous looks from the women as I sway my way among them gathering information.

Human greed is something wonderful to see in action. For trinkets and promises of good fortune and money they betray their mothers, their fathers, their brothers, sisters and friends. Some men fall deeply in love with me – the more fool they – for, for a simple illusion of a passionate night of having their way with me, they betray even their own grandmothers.

Bit by bit I compile my list and when it is complete then I set to work on them and show them what a real Witch can do. No, I do not kill them... not right away. First, I take from them all my mother had given them. I send blight into their crops and disease into their sheep and cattle. I catch that ogre Alfonso, who so foully and cowardly clubbed my mother from behind, shoeing his mare so I spook her so she bucks and strikes him such a blow to his head that it reduces him a drooling, jabbering idiot who can no longer wash, dress or feed himself. And my heart grows colder. Then I wreak havoc on the women for I hate them most of all. Not only for the murder of my mother do I hate them but I hate them for betraying their own gender. So I chase them and harangue them without pity. I change their fine raiments into rags. I put warts and ugly blemishes and sores on their faces and bodies, I reduce their voices to squawks and croaks, change their hair into straw and plague their backs so they hunch over and hobble on canes. Then, I give them visions of horror by day and send them nightmares in the night so they ceaselessly scream and weep. And my heart grows colder and crueller. I follow them around and make sure evil and misfortune befall all with whom they have contact. And then... and then, I send through the wind the word "witch" against them until their own neighbours drag them to the spot where they torched my mother, tie them to stakes and set them ablaze. Then I stand with the crowd and I laugh and chant, "Die, witch, die!" while the screams tear from their burning throats as the flames devour them. And my heart grows ever yet colder and crueller. When done, I go back to the cave that Muta and I made our secret hideout to collect the things that matter to me and then I make my way back to the Planet of Alfea and to Cloud Tower.


	33. Resolutions and Restitutions

"That is exactly right," says Alysoun. "How better then to turn yourself around and prepare yourself for when you inherit the Dragon Fire than to first become a healer? How better to write that edict again into your heart and become an instrument of good?"

"But who would train me?" I ask, feeling at that time so ashamed and unworthy.

"I would," says Alysoun approaching me and enfolding me in her arms and wings. "It would be my honour to complete your training as a healer."

"Thank you, Alysoun," I say, sobbing into her feathery breast. "I will do my utmost for you."

"I'm sure you will," she replies.

"But I still don't see how this will get me the Dragon Fire," I say to her.

"I think the Great Dragon herself will give it to you," says Alysoun, softly. "I think that she has been waiting for eons for a Witch to prove herself worthy of it and I know that you can be that Witch if you put your mind to it."

"Aww, this is so tweet!" exclaims Darcy who has floated to the kitchen door to find Alysoun and I in each other's embrace. "They wuv each other."

"Shut up, Darcy!" say Alysoun and I together and we all laugh.

"Well, maybe you could take the time to tell me what smells so good," says Darcy. It's making me hungry."

"Tarantula and split pea soup," I tell Darcy who turns to translate for Stormy who has floated in behind her. At the news, Stormy starts burbling happily to both Darcy and me while her Whisperian crystal pulses in cadence to her speech.

"I have a spread laid out in the great dining hall for all including our honoured guest if she wishes to join us," I say nodding to Alysoun. "This will be a formal event. Dress feathers will be required," I tell her with a wink.

"Dress feathers, indeed," chirps Alysoun with a trill of avian laughter.

"Will we have time to change out of out gym clothes and spend some time in the sauna?" asks Darcy.

"Plenty of time," I tell her. "You have another two hour before everything is ready."

"Two hours!" exclaims Darcy in mock exaggeration. "We'll die of starvation before then."

"Enough, already!" I tell the two of them waiving the hot soup ladle in their direction. "Out of here or it's going to take forever."

"At the risk of turning the air serious once more and bringing up a touchy subject," says Alysoun once Darcy and Stormy are again out of earshot, "but I was thinking that you could train Bloom in the use of the Dragon Fire in conjunction with my training you in the healing arts. I cannot think of anyone ultimately more qualified to train Bloom than you, Icy."

"Yes, I could do that but there are a few problems with that not the least of which is that I am imprisoned here in Cloud Tower," I tell Alysoun. "The other is Bloom hates my guts and would never agree to spend time at Cloud Tower let alone allow me to train her. Still, it was another trio of Witches that created this mess with the attack on Sparks so I guess it up to me as a Witch to clean it up. Also, how will I ever get Lady Griffin and Lady Faragonda to condone this? It is going to take a lot more than just a bald statement from me to convince them that I've had a change of heart."

"Use those brains the Goddess gave you, Icy, and those research skills for which you are renowned," replies Alysoun. "I'm sure you will find enough to draw up a convincing argument as to why Bloom needs to be trained and why you should be the one who trains her. You have already given me one good reason. You could also argue that because Daphne, the last trained Faerie Guardian of the Dragon Fire who would have normally trained Bloom, is no longer here in the flesh to do that, then it's your obligation to take on that role in her stead. Here again is a chance to become more. Instead of being just Bloom's trainer, you could be that older sister the Ancestresses took away from her."

"Bloom is what? She's twenty-one now and in her second year of postgraduate studies at Alfea College," continues Alysoun, "and you have not seen her in over a year. Chances are her anger has cooled since then. She is a Faerie, after all, and it is not in their nature to hang onto a grudge as Witches do. I am sure you will find her much changed from that teenager you did battle with and she will find that you have changed too. Maybe it is time to hold out an olive branch to her and by same token doing this could go a long way to getting the favourable response you want from Tecna and even the Great Dragon."

"That would be irony, indeed," I say, "but befitting. We spent so much time in each other's faces battling each other and yet we never got to know each other. Maybe we could come to liking each other... but her sister! Maybe we should try to be friends first."

I realize that the soup has reached a state that all it needs to do is simmer for a time. I lower the heat and order the kitchen automatron to monitor it. "I have to go get ready," I tell Alysoun. "I'll meet you shortly in the great dining hall."

I have slowly made changes to my appearance since my imprisonment at Cloud Tower. First to go were the skin-tight black leather outfits and stiletto boots for more practical dresses and flat-healed shoes. I have stopped putting dark eye shadow under my eyes and have opted for a minimal foundation with a touch of lipstick and sometimes amethyst highlighter along the edges of my ears. I have lengthened my eyelashes somewhat with ice-blue and silver flecked mascara. My eyebrows are no longer plucked but shaped into comely arches. My high ponytail, having suffered from so much abuse at Stormy's hands and from the lack of proper care due to a hectic lifestyle, is now so tattered and ratty that it is beyond repair even with witchcraft. Today, I decide it must go. I set my jaw and resolutely bob it. The long strands of my once glorious ponytail are now at my feet on the floor. I have thoughts of salvaging it to make a wig or some sort of a charm of it but a voice from within me shouts "No!" so I gather it up, freeze it solid and then shatter it into crystal nothingness with a blast of cold air. I am left with hair that is shoulder length and loose. I work at it cutting the hair along the temples and around the ears so it is short and bristly. The rest I work into rows of thin spikes from my forehead down to my shoulders at the back. Finally, with a judicial application of witchcraft, I create an illusion within each spike that it is alive and illuminated from within by an ice-blue flame that flickers and dances to a hypnotic rhythm.

Tonight, for our feast, I have picked out a slinky, open-backed, floor-length dark blue dress with silvery points like a star field, that clings snugly and flatteringly about my waist and down my long legs. About my waist is a long red sash that also has silver starlike points. On my feet are matching blue slippers that are hidden beneath the dress. I am admiring the new-look Witch in the mirror and thinking, "Yes! Eat your heart out, Stella, with all your talk about style and flair. True, Faeries and Pixies have their cutsie-pie charm but true beauty and raw feminine prowess is a Witch. So look out! Tonight I'm that Witch!"


	34. Aelfscine

It is a lazy afternoon. Darcy, Stormy and I are in the entertainment room listening to meditation music and enjoying the fragrance of incense wafting about the air. Darcy is lounging in a reclining chair while I sit on the loveseat with Stormy curled up beside me with her head resting upon my breast. I have my chin resting against the top of her head and closing my eyes, I try to enter into her thoughts. But everything is completely opaque to me. Perhaps like Alysoun's sound probes, the special shielding around Stormy's brain prevents her from transmitting or receiving thoughts. With Darcy, I can sometimes catch fleeting thoughts but they are unschooled and random and have mostly to do with Riven. Oh yes, she still holds a torch for him – big time.

I have my eyes closed – once again trying to get into the spirit of the music and the scent of incense when there is a knock on the door.

"Someone is knocking?" asks Darcy, surprised.

In the Witch world, where almost everyone is capable of teleportation, doors have become a formality. Most Witches just teleport themselves to wherever they want and most everyone has established a part of her quarters where callers can just beam in. If you do not want to be disturbed, you simply erect a barrier. The only time one knocks is if one cannot teleport, is a stranger, or seeks entry into one of the inner sanctums – such as the headmistress' office – where tradition and protocol dictate that one has to knock.

Again, there is a knock. "Whoa," says Darcy with a short giggle, "that is so polite it has faerie dust on it."

"I guess I had better go find out who wants to visit us," I say while gently moving Stormy aside and allowing her to stretch out on the loveseat.

I open the door to a pair of emerald green eyes, then to a leopard spotted face with a distinct cat's divot under the nose, a somewhat cat-like mouth and a head topped with fox red hair done up in a high ponytail which was once my signature hairstyle. For a fleeting moment I think that she is a Cat-Witch but soon realize that she lacks a tail and that her nose is human not a cat's flat triangle nor are her pupils vertical slits but also the human norm.

"Hello," says the stranger in a young Darcy sounding voice. "You are Icy, I believe. I'm Ælfscine your new neighbour. I have this to give you," she continues while handing me a dark-mauve envelope with silver writing on it.

The envelope is addressed to both Darcy and me and bears upon it the seal of The High Council of the Sisterhood of Witches and an air about it that bespeaks M'Trika. I open it and begin to read.

"In summary," says Ælfscine, "you and Darcy are to report back to work on the next workday. While you are there, I will be here to mind your apartment and to tutor Stormy along with my three other charges."

I look at Ælfscine and am about to say, "You look awfully young to be a teacher," but then I recall my experience with Vulpa and Alysoun's warnings about making hasty presumptions and rephrase it to, "What are your qualifications?"

"I have all the required diplomas and certificates from normal school as attested to in the letter of introduction," states Ælfscine, "also, I am fluent in Gaelic as it is my mother tongue and I'm also a Storm-Witch."

"No way!" exclaims Darcy who has come out of the entertainment room to listen to all this. "If you claim to be all that, then I say that you must have bitten a chunk out of the fabled Blarny Stone on Terra rather than just kissing it," and then begins speaking to her in rapid-fire Gaelic.

Ælfscine looks at Darcy with her cool emerald green eyes and responds calmly to her in Gaelic while Darcy blushes and looks taken aback. Within minutes, Darcy is smiling from ear to ear and acting as if Ælfscine is her long lost sister now found. I listen intently and soon come to realize that there are subtle differences in the way the language is being spoken between the two women. I then realize too that we are still standing in the doorway while Ælfscine is still in the hallway.

"Well, come in and let me at least offer you something to drink," I say to Ælfscine in Witchspeak.

"Thank you," replies Ælfscine, "but I will pass on the something to drink for the moment. I thought you would first like to meet the other children who will be studying with Stormy."

"I would like that," I tell her, hoping to get the warm and fuzzy over and done with quickly.

"Come along, children," says Ælfscine and then it is I who finds herself taken aback as Ælfscine's backside suddenly sprouts luna-moth style wings each with a bright green central eye graduating to blue and yellow on the edges. But then I realize that they are much too low on Ælfscine's body to be hers as then their owner steps out from behind her.

"This is Wesle," says Ælfscine introducing the Faerie child who sports tomboyish cut blue hair and a matching pair of eyes.

The Faerie approaches me and then kneeling before me and dropping her wings in a fair imitation of a Witch novice lowering her cloak she recites the Novice's Pledge of Allegiance to me in very respectable Witchspeak.

"Very clever, Ælfscine," I'm thinking. "I should have known that at a foxy Witch like you would be up to shenanigans. You had it figured quite rightly that I might object to Stormy studying alongside a Faerie so you trap me and force me to accept her with this ploy. Well this gets you big marks for chutzpah but equally gets a big red check mark beside you name in my 'I'll pay you back for this someday' book." For the Novice's Pledge of Allegiance is in fact a two-way contract. Wesle, as the novice, pledges loyalty to me and the rules and regulations of Cloud Tower and I in return pledge to her food, shelter, protection, leadership and education. Once I allow her to stand up, the Pledge is as fast and binding on each of us as a contract written and signed in blood.

"Arise, Novice," I tell her in the traditional manner while at the same time bowing to the inescapable.

Wesle stands and looking at me shyly and with the air of one feeling greatly intimidated in my presence asks in High Alfean, "You will not do me harm, will you O Mighty Witch?" Well, that is the free translation of it into Witchspeak. Word-for-word she says, "I (1st person feminine nominative singular, non-aggressive state) make respectful questioning of thee (2nd person feminine dative, dominate state) that thou (2nd person feminine nominative-instrumental, ultimate honorifics) wilt not do harm unto me (1st person feminine singular dative, in the state of kowtowing and grovelling with my nose so close to the ground that I'm inhaling dust), O Mighty Enemy (vocative, dominant state, ultimate honorifics)."

"I am an Artificer not a Witch," I tell her sternly and firmly in High Alfean and with that she assumes a posture that is yet more fearful and cowering.

Our languages and the vary words we use to describe each other in them are among the many things that keep fuelling fear and animosity between Witches and Faeries. In Witchspeak the word for "Faerie" literally translated into most any other language means "she-wasp" and is derived from a root that is used in the nomenclature of a whole swarm of insects that bite, buzz, sting, transmit diseases, cause structural damage and a list of other woes. In Alfean and its dialects the word for "Witch" is interchangeable with the word for "enemy" and is based on the same root that forms words such as "liar", "cheat", "back-stabber", "murderess" and the names of a host of other unsavoury characters. Therefore, from the get go, it is hard to be friends with someone with the name of something you would rather slap, swat or douse with insecticide or to trust someone already labelled an enemy. Yet, if you translate the words by which we call ourselves into the other's language, in both cases the translation would be "sister".

I look at this frighted Faerie child and, first taking in a deep breath and then taking special care to avoid aggressive forms and also taking care to use medium-high honorifics, I explain to her in High Alfean, "Wesle, you have no need to fear me or to think of me as an enemy. Do not believe all the bad things you have heard about my people (carefully avoiding the Alfean word for Witch) and especially what you may have heard about me. I do not categorically hate and despise all Faeries. It is true that I once fought against a certain group of Faeries and its leader but that was because at that time I mistakenly believed that this Faerie had stolen something of mine. I have come to recognize my error and we are no longer at odds with each other. As for you, so long as you do not cause me any mischief, there is no reason why we cannot be friends and sisters."

"As you wish, Artificer," says Wesle and then hurries back to Ælfscine's side.

The second child – maybe a year older than Wesle but still a child – is a Witch and a Ferret-morph named Steorra who is slender and lithe with dark brown fur and enormous dark eyes. She too, kneels before me and recites the Novice's Pledge of Allegiance which I permit. When done, she goes back to Ælfscine's side as polite and well-behaved as anyone could want.

The third child pushes her way past Ælfscine on bandy legs. With her black and greasy haired head reaching just to my navel and from a slit-like mouth with two upward protruding tusks she stands up to me and announces in a voice too deep to believe, "I am Bemeba. You give me candy now or you get big-bad-da-boom!" and with that she slams a pudgy blue fist into my thigh.

"Ouch, you brat!" I scream before I can bite my tongue.

"Bemeba!" shouts Ælfscine, taking the troll child in hand. "You apologise right this instant, young lady."

"No!" shouts Bemeba belligerently. "I get candy now or you get big-bad-da-boom," and with that she pile-drives her fist into Ælfscine's thigh.

Ælfscine, to my amazement, doesn't even bat an eye. "Behave!" she orders the unruly child.

"No!" shouts Bemeba and again slams her fist into Ælfscine's side with a meaty sound of flesh coming solidly into contact with flesh.

Ælfscine holds up a glowing index finger and now the troll child has the grace to show a little fear and respect. "To you room, now," she orders the child.

"Humph," snorts Bemeba. "Some day I'll be big and will get all the candy I want or everyone gets big-bad-da-boom!" and struts out the door.

Wesle looks like she is about to go hyper and fly out a window at anytime. "Steorra," says Ælfscine, turning to the young Ferret-morph Witch, "take Wesle back to the apartment and be sure that Bemeba goes directly to her room. You may make lunch for Wesle and yourself. I'll see to Bemeba's lunch _after_ I've had a long talk with her."

"Yes, Emma Ælfscine," replies Steorra while taking Wesle's hand and directing her gently towards the door.

While Ælfscine's back is turned to see the children out, Darcy shoots me an amazed, "Did you hear how that child just addressed her?" look and I hastily sign back to her, "Just be quiet."

"I'm so terribly sorry about that," Ælfscine apologises to me. "Bemeba is usually well behaved but she always tries to get her way with strangers. Are you all right?"

"I've survived worse," I tell her.

"That little tike sure can pack a whallup," remarks Darcy almost humorously.

"What about you?" I ask. "It looks like she wasn't holding back any when punching you."

"Oh, there," says Ælfscine, indicating her thigh. "She can hammer away all she wants there and I won't feel a thing. It's all metal and circuitry under thick synthetic flesh – nothing there at all that she can damage. But I think that she forgets that others are not like that."

"You're a cyborg?" asks Darcy.

"Well," replies Ælfscine with an air of someone who has had to explain this many a time. "I think of myself as two-thirds human, one-third cyborg and all Storm-Witch. When I was a child, I was involved in a vehicle accident that killed my mother and older sister and left me with broken legs and a crushed pelvis."

"Sorry to hear that," say Darcy and I together.

"Well, that is well in the past now," says Ælfscine. "The medical profession on Terra is still in the Dark Ages when it comes to using magic for healing. The best they could do is reset the bones and lock me up in a kind of brace that allowed me to shuffle around some."

"Where and when did you get the cybernetic parts?" ask Darcy, getting nosily curious.

"Getting to that," says Ælfscine. "Anyway, I was playing our version of hide and seek with my brother one day when I found an old oak tree with a hollow in the trunk that I managed to scrunch myself into and hide. I leaned back against the back of the hollow and suddenly found myself parsecs away from Terra flat out on my witchy butt in the midst of group of Faeries and inhabitants of a planet belonging to a binary star system who stood there too shocked to go either 'beep' or 'boop'."

"Oh, that's rich!" laughs Darcy. "You find a portal to Binos and activate it with you emerging Storm-Witch powers. I can imagine how that must have put a kink into their orderly and logical," and then the three of us are giggling.

"Oh, you have had contact with them too, it would seem," remarks Ælfscine grinning catlike.

"Yes, we've been up close and personal with one native of Binos on several occasions," I tell her.

"Yeah, her and her geeky Red Fountain boyfriend," snarks Darcy making a face.

"Well, no one was more ready to be out of there than I was after what I figure was a month, I tell you. They are a good lot but also the nicest bunch of Faeries you'd never want to meet again. They are all so prim and proper, stand to attention, move to the right in threes, KR&O, mind your P's and Q's, pip-pip and all that. And worst of all was all their constant harping on logic and order and their total lack of humour."

"Oh, I hear you, Sister" I tell her almost in tears with laughter. "It's amazing you lasted a month there. I would have gone bonkers by then."

"I almost did," laughs Ælfscine, "but to give them their due, they did replaced my damaged legs and pelvis with cybernetic ones. Then it was a cram in Witchspeak and Alfean Standard and off they sent me. Now, for the last ten years, it's been à la main left and à la main right, giggity gig hopscotching all over this parsec studying and amassing credits, certificates and degrees wherever I can. And now I find myself here on the Planet of Alfea and once again floating in Faeries."

The conversation continues and we gravitate to the entertainment room where Stormy is still asleep on the loveseat. We allow her to sleep on undisturbed while in a low voice over coffee and biscotti Ælfscine outlines the re-education curriculum she has planned for Stormy and the other children. A few hours go by before we realize it and we are finally out of conversation. As a polite hostesses, Darcy and I escort Ælfscine to the door to bid her so long for the day.

"I'm glad to see that Stormy will be in good hands while we are at work and that you like children," says Darcy smiling while opening the door.

"Like children? I love children!" replies Ælfscine in exaggerated tones and then in a whisper and with a very catlike grin adds, "Although, I can never quite manage to eat a whole one."

"She's nice," I tell Darcy after the door is closed and I am certain that Ælfscine has closed hers. "She's a Storm-Witch and she speaks Gaelic too?"

"Beautifully," replies Darcy almost in a dream state, "but it's not the New Witch Haven variety that she speaks. What she speaks is Classical Gaelic in a form that's so old that it was old before my grandmother. Stormy might find it difficult to understand her for a time but I am glad that she will be getting exposure to the cultured form of the language. Icy, you should ask her to be your instructor and I wouldn't mind a refresher myself."

"Speaking of old before your grandmother, you heard too how that Steorra child addressed her?" I ask Darcy. "If 'Emma' is her true title and not a child's exaggeration or slip of the tongue then there is a lot more to our little Ælfscine than meets the eye."

"I agree," says Darcy. "The title 'Emma' is like when you are high enough in the pantheon that you can advise the Goddess on what She can and cannot do. My gut feeling is that, child or not, Steorra is not the type to exaggerate or to slip up on something as important as this. It explains how it is Ælfscine speaks this ancient form of Gaelic and how she got her education. I think 'ten years' is the exaggeration. It is more likely ten decades or possibly ten centuries. But why then is she here and what is her true interest in Stormy?"

"I have no idea," I tell her perplexed. "Darcy, it's just another mystery within a mystery wrapped in a mystery that's part of Cloud Tower."


	35. Tiger Tiger

"Icy, get over here quickly," calls Darcy's excited voice from the balcony. "You should get a load of this guy's acrobatics!"

Darcy and I often amuse ourselves watching what the other denizens of Cloud Tower of the animal and bird varieties are up to. There are a number of creatures – mostly chimeral in nature – that walk, fly, perform high-wire acts and other acrobatics and some, I admit, put on quite a show.

"What is it you see this time?" I ask.

"I haven't a clue but he's big whatever his is," replies Darcy.

I come to the balcony edge and look to where Darcy is pointing several balconies below. And there, walking along the edge of one of the lower balconies, is a huge white tiger with black stripes – not only there but in the flesh there – strutting as if she owned the place.

"By the Tree!" I gasp. "It's a tiger but how did she get so far up?"

"How can you be so sure it's a she?" asks Darcy which brings up again our discussion on the nature of my secret admirer.

"Oh, come on, Icy!" Darcy says. "This whole setup just reeks of a guy. It's like Nell says, we are three little birds in some guy's gilded cage, or his harem girls, or simply his three little Witches in a row. At best, he's set himself up as lord of the manner, you are his consort and Stormy and I are your ladies-in-waiting."

"Okay, that maybe so," I say, "but where is the physical proof that a guy has anything to do with this place?"

"Sure, I haven't found a pair of men's pants or a jockstrap about but look at the structure of this place. A Witch would have designed it with a single large bedroom where we could all sleep together all cosey and sisterly instead of alone in three separate ones," says Darcy. "There is also the matter of the gym and sauna and all the work-out equipment. And what about the food we're provided? Haven't you noticed something a little strange about it?"

"What about it?" I ask, still not getting her drift. "It's all good healthy food."

"That's just it," replies Darcy. "It's all a little too healthy. Like some guy does not want us eating anything that would cause us to get fat and lazy. Not only everything in our larder designed to be ultimately nutritious but also designed to burn off excess calories and fat. Sheesh! Even the junk food is good for us. It is all designed to keep us active and in peak condition."

"Well, I don't hear you complaining about it," I tell her.

"I'm not," replies Darcy. "Face it, Icy, we've never had it better. Not even Darkar or Baltor ever gave us this much. So what if they gave us power? What did getting more power actually achieve for us in the end? As for me, I am happy to settle for less power and more creature comfort just now. And even if we are some guy's kept women, I am not going to complain one bit because, unlike the other two, this guy obviously knows how to take very good care of his Witches."

"True," I tell her, "we've never had it better since being moved into this apartment but I am wondering at what cost will this be to us in the end. Sooner or later, our benefactor will come to collect for all this and I just hope that her demands of us will be ones we can meet."

"Oh, you worry too much!" replies Darcy with a dismissive wave of her hands. "Stop looking a gift horse in the mouth and enjoy yourself. You'll send yourself to an early grave if you keep pre-worrying the future like this."

"Still, how does this indicate whether our benefactor is a man or a woman?" I ask again.

"Well," says Darcy as if about to present her trump card, "have you had a close look at our entire wardrobe? What woman would include a sexy crimson-red negligee and lacy powder-blue baby dolls in another woman's wardrobe – especially if this other woman could be a potential rival?"

"You're kidding me!" I exclaim. "Where did you find things like that?"

"In my wardrobe and also in Stormy's but hers were lime green and hot pink," grins Darcy. "I can only imagine what is hidden in yours."

"Okay, Darcy, you win," I laugh, "even I have to admit to that sounding like a guy or a very kinky woman."

During our conversation, we lost track of the tiger. "Where did our entertainment go?" I ask Darcy and then, like that, it's in front of us balancing on the railing of our balcony. Darcy and I are standing there as if rooted to the ground in shock and immobilized not knowing what to do. The tiger seems unaware of our surprise and merely look from Darcy to me. When its eyes meet with mine, it opens its jaws in a catlike smile and roars softly and non-aggressively as if to say, "Hello, there!" and then it springs to the next balcony. As it leaps, both Darcy and I get a good look at its south end heading north and all questions of its gender are put to rest.

"Oh, my!" drawls Darcy with her fingers to her mouth blushing and swaying her hips. "He'd better not find Matchka or she'll be having kittens for sure."

"Well, maybe motherhood and responsibility will calm her down," I say.

"Maybe so," replies Darcy, "but with our luck she'll teach her whole pride to hate us and then we'll end up with half a dozen problems instead of just one."

"Still, I wish I knew what it is that has her so fired against me," I muse.

"Oh, who knows? Who cares?" says Darcy. "I haven't seen her since our move here and if M'Trika has taken her out of our lives then I say good riddance to a major pain in the butt."

"Still, sooner or later, we may have to deal with her once and for all or she'll never end this blood feud," I reply.

"Do you think I don't want it to end?" retorts Darcy, her face and words full of anguish. "She nearly killed Stormy! Do you think I don't care about that? It's my blood sister that Matchka was going to force you to leave to die, after all!"

"Back, Darcy, back!" I tell her with my hands up in defense. "Do I have to get out a whip and a chair?"

"Sorry," heaves Darcy, "but I just bet that this all over something super stupid like perhaps you accidentally stomped on Her Meow-jesty's tail without then apologizing."

"Cat-and-mouse," I say with a sigh and Darcy nods her head in agreement.

Our tiger visitor has disappeared – possibly gone to higher balconies.

"You will have to promise me one thing," says Darcy with a grin.

"What is that?" I ask and feign cringing in terror.

"Well," says Darcy, "if we ever have to bag that big cat, you can have his pelt but you must promise me his jewels to use as a decoration for my new hat."

"Darcy, you Witch!" I say. "Sure, you can have them but I'm sure you want them for more than just decoration for a new hat."

"Possibly," replies Darcy with her tongue between her teeth, "but that is for me to know and for you to find out."

That nigh as I sleep, I feel the presence of someone in my room – a presence of infinite goodness. But I'm immobilized unable to so much as open my eyes. My mind begins to panic and my thoughts rush to: "It is the Soul-Reaper come to pluck my soul from my young body and take it to a place of eternal punishment for all the evil I have done. No, please, not that!"

I am still unable to budge a mite but I feel tears streaming from my eyes, past my nose and into my mouth – salty and bitter. I feel a touch of feathers at my crown and at my feet and the caress of a furry hand-paw soft and gentle against my cheek like that of a lover. Then, softly in a purr-whisper he says to me in Italian, "Fear not, Ishandra, my precious little one. I am not here to condemn you or take away your soul but to protect you and to guide you back to The Light, my beloved."


	36. Back to Work

I awake bright and early the next morning feeling great. In fact, I am feeling so great that, as I float around the kitchen preparing my breakfast and brewing espresso for Darcy and me, I am singing an Italian ballad about the joys of finding one's true love.

Darcy looks askance at me as I flit around the kitchen. "You are in a joyful mood for someone who is going off to work," she says almost sarcastically, "and you haven't even had your first cup of espresso yet to get you going this morning."

"Yes, I guess I am," I tell her. "I'm actually looking forward to this first day back. Now that things are somewhat back to normal and manageable, I find myself feeling a bit furloughed out. It will be good to get back to teaching again."

"Ugh!" says Darcy, making a face. "I can imagine the work that has piled up on_ my _desk. I'm getting a headache just thinking about it."

"It can't be that bad," I tell her while handing her a demitasse of espresso and taking my place in front of her and Stormy who is happily devouring a stack of pancakes with blueberry velvet topping.

"Shoot!" I'm thinking to myself as I get up and go to the comm unit and punch in Ælfscine's calling sequence.

"Top o' th' mornin' ta'ee, Professor," greets Ælfscine's lilting voice as Darcy giggles behind me.

"Good morning to you," I greet her. "I hope you are nearly ready. Darcy and I are leaving in twenty. I want you here in ten."

"I'll be there," replies Ælfscine and then the connection clicks off.

I arrive at Professor Zarathustra's office before anyone else and go to my desk to find it covered and surrounded with stacks of papers and books and stuff stacked on and under the chair. I remember Darcy's remarks over the breakfast table and begin feel sorry for her thinking about what must be awaiting her. I pull out the chair and clear off the stuff so I can at least sit down. I am shuffling through the papers trying to find where to start when Zarathustra beams in.

"Hello, Icy! Glad to have you back," she greets me. "I missed you sorely."

"Nice to be back," I tell her. "I see you have saved up all this work for me."

"Oh, no!" exclaims Zarathustra. "That's not for you. That is my research that I am hoping to get back to in earnest now that you have returned. I want you to start teaching classes. Here is material for the Introduction to Arcane Magic class at ten hour. I'll start you on the advanced classes once you have settled back in."

I am making my way to the lecture hall when I start thinking about if I am going to run into any of the thirty Withes who fought against me during the Alfea College War. Then I realize that was almost three years ago and all those Witches have gone through the system and graduated except for perhaps one or two who might be taking postgraduate courses which, thankfully, are held in one of the other towers. I enter the lecture hall and thirty some eager and excited new faces turn to look at me.

"Good morning, class," I greet them. "I am Professor Icy and I will your instructor for this Introduction to Arcane Magic class. This year you will be learning about your unique powers and potentials through a study of the past. Remember though, as you gain skill and your powers grow that witchcraft should only be used to benefit all and to harm none. Now we will start by..."


	37. The Margay Trix

When I arrive back at our apartment, it is Darcy whom I find happy and cheerful as a bluebird.

"Icy, you won't believe this!" exclaims Darcy excitedly.

"Believe what?" I ask.

"I've been promoted to Section Head with my own office and staff," beams Darcy.

"Congratulations," I tell her sincerely, "that is a lot better than the mound of paperwork you were expecting to greet you this morning."

"Yes," she agrees, "I couldn't believe my ears when I got the news. An office, staff and a huge stipend and all I have to do for it is supervise my staff and come up with good ideas on how to manage the Cloud Tower budget more efficiently."

"That sounds great, Darcy," I tell her. "What is your staff like?"

Her staff, it turns out, is a trix of Margay Cat-Witches and, if I possessed cat's ears and a tail, they would all be standing at attention as my interest is peaked. From Darcy's description they are a rambunctious trio more interested in chasing each other, scrapping and other rough-and-tumble than doing any serious work but once you got them settled down what they could do with numbers and with such great efficiency made one's jaw drop.

A week later, I have them over for dinner and seat them between Darcy and Stormy on one side of the table while I sit directly in front of them on the other side. Dinner is devoured with much purring, munching and chops licking as the triplets dig into the huge fish with all the side dishes and trimmings that I have cooked up for them. Within a short time, they have eaten half the fish and are fidgeting on their chairs like three children waiting for their parent to excuse them from the table so they can go outside and play. But I want information and I am banking that the food, drink, and urge to go out to play will loosen their tongues.

"So, you are Parsley, you are Sage and you are Rosemary," I begin having committed to memory the variations in the patterns of stripes and splotches that distinguish the three.

"Very good!" says Sage. "You wouldn't believe how many people have trouble telling us apart," she says, grinning at Darcy.

"Is there a Thyme in your group?" I ask, trying to be witty and put them more at ease.

The three look at each other for a moment. "Oh, our father Thyme," says Sage. "He's on the home world. He lives on an island called The Bottle."

"Thyme, bottle," sniggers Parsley. "That was a good one, Sage."

"Well, I hear that he'll be living on the mainland soon, so...," begins Rosemary and the other two chime in with, "Thyme is on the move," and break into gales of cattish laughter while Darcy starts squirming on her chair.

"Have some more crab cakes, dears," I say while proffering the plate. "So I guess you must find it a bit lonely here being the only Margays?"

"No, we're not lonely at all with all the other Cat-Witches here," says Rosemary. "We think of them all as Sisters."

"Ah, then you know Matchka?" I ask.

"Yes, we know of her but she is no longer at Cloud Tower," replies Parsley. "She has been taken back to her home world because she had problems."

"Here, have some more fish," I tell them. "So what was Matchka's problem?"

"It seems," continues Parsley, "that some stupid Witches started a war a few years back with a bunch of dumb Faeries over something called Worm Breath."

"Wait a..." Darcy begins to protest but, unseen under the table, I kick her shins hard and she yelps.

"What's with the boss?" asks Rosemary.

"Oh, she's just putting on the dog," I reply and the three of them twitch their ears confused. "And so what has this to do with Matchka?"

"Her sister was killed in the fighting," says Parsley, "and so Matchka was out on a one Cat-Witch vendetta to see that the Witches who started it all ended up in the same condition."

"So, we get to the truth of it at last," I'm thinking.

The one thing I could never understand of the Faeries is how they could gloss over and make light of all the events of the Alfea War as if it all happened in just one day and they defeated us clad only in miniskirts and the only deaths were those of the rot-worms and the rot-monsters. No, this was a dirty little war with no glory in it whatsoever that dragged on for months and saw each side use every battle strategy and every trick fair or foul to try to defeat the other. And in the end, it was all for naught. All it brought was death and destruction on both sides. For it was not only rot-creatures that died but Heros died, Faeries died, Pixies died and so, it would seem, Witches died. And as for Darcy, Stormy and me... none of us came out of the fighting unscathed either. I was nearly burned to a crisp by the very Dragon Fire I was trying to capture and to this day parts of me still feel like they are on fire where the Dragon Fire licked me. Darcy bares pock marks around her midriff where one of Flora's thorny vines wrapped itself around her and would have snapped her in two had I not been quick enough to freeze it solid so Darcy could break free. Stormy nearly had her eardrums burst and her brains scrambled when she took one of Musa's boom-blast attacks straight to her head. Stormy's special shielding may have softened the blow but now I believe that blast set the preconditions that would eventually see Stormy reduced to the woman-child she is today. And Bloom got caught dead centre of one of my ice-dart attacks. I failed to kill her and she got away but only with deep cuts all over her body, a hole punched through one of her wings that I could put my fist through and one foot hanging on to the rest of her leg by merely a sinew and a bone fragment. All I can say about her survival is that either Alfea College has one heck of a healer I don't know about or – and said with great respect – Bloom is one tough-as-nails bitch to try to kill.

"Anyway," says Rosemary with almost childish glee, "they'll fix her up good and proper. They'll adjust her and she won't remember having a sister or an argument with those idiot Witches."

"Rosemary! Smarten up!" snarls Sage and swats her sister hard upside her head. "Adjusting is something done as a last resort and is not to be made light of."

"But..." hisses Rosemary but Sage gives her such an ice-cold angry look with her nose wrinkled and her whiskers twitching that all protest dies in her mouth and cowering she submissively lowers her ears and tail and Parsley on the other side is doing likewise. Then, suddenly, Stormy throws her arms about Rosemary, holding the little Margay close to her, rocking her and murmuring softly to her while gently stroking her head as I do when she is frightened all the while her eyes burning with accusation aimed at Sage. Sage turns her face away from Rosemary and Stormy, breaths deeply a few time and flexes her claws once or twice and says, "Okay, you're forgiven this time," and puts her arm around Rosemary and Stormy on one side and Parsley on the other and for about five minutes there is a three kitty-cats plus Storm-Witch love-in as they bunt each others cheeks and lick faces.

"Here," I say, "there are some dormice left. Why not finish them off before they go cold and I have to throw them out?" and within seconds they are back to purring, munching and licking their chops.

"I'm sorry that Matchka didn't succeed in her quest," says Parsley flexing her clawed fingers. "Those Witches deserve to be gutted and their innards hung out to dry."

"Yeah," agrees Sage, "but I hear that some redheaded Faerie named Petunia kicked their butts and now they're serving a life sentence in Lighthaven."

"Humph!" growls Rosemary. "Lighthaven is too good for those Witches. They should be garrotted and their bodies thrown into the deepest peatbog. It took decades for the Sisterhood of Witches to finally come to terms with the Faeries of Alfea and build a foundation of mutual trust and respect so we could live with them in harmony and in peace. And then... these upstarts have to come along and pick a fight and destroy everything. It will take centuries to regain all we have strived for and then lost in that war and most likely we'll never be trusted by the Faeries ever again."

"It makes my blood boil just thinking about it," says Parsley wrinkling her nose in disgust. "Those Witches must have sawdust for brains to have done such a thing. Even garrotting is too good for them. They should be drawn and quartered afterwards."

"And the pieces burned at the stake and the ashes ground into dust, mixed with salt and then cast into the deepest peatbog," puts in Rosemary.

"Yea, Sister!" chime the other two and they all give each other the high-five.

"And that," concludes Sage, "is how we'd fix traitors and troublemakers."

"You are really nice ladies," says Rosemary. "Surely you wouldn't do such a lame-brained thing as those Withes, would you?"

"It never would have crossed my mind," I tell her sweetly.

"Definitely not," says Darcy coldly.

Dinner concludes shortly afterwards and Darcy and I escort the Margay Trix to the door where I present each of them with a sachet stuffed with catnip which is received with much purring and tail swishing and then I see them out.

"I am going to cut off their tails," steams Darcy, "and then use them to hang them from the rafters and afterwards I am going to find out just how well Margay fur translates into a new hat, gloves and slippers. And what's the big idea of kicking me?"

"I'm sorry, Darcy," I tell her, "but I had to keep those three talking. We need to get information on what is really going on around here."

"Why can't we simply use a_ Spiare _spell to find out what we want to know?" asks Darcy.

"Because, Darcy dear, you know very well that any Witch worth her salt can detect, counter and trace such a spell back to its owner," I tell her, "and that would bring the wrath of M'Trika and Lady Griffin down on our heads in no time flat."

"I see what you mean," says Darcy. "Not good. I want keep myself as far from M'Trika's notice and scrutiny as possible."

"Yes," I continue, "but people cannot seem to stop spilling secretes even when a Margay is standing there in plain view of all. That makes them our perfect little spies. So, I want you to do all you can to encourage the Margay Trix to keep their eyes and ears open and to stick their sweet little pussycat noses into everyone's business and to report back to us everything they learn."


	38. Entr'acte: The Disparity of a Woman

**Woman's Inequality****  
(Descompasso de uma Mulher)**

They want me to be a mother  
Then they want me to be a vixen.

They want me to be a leader  
Then they make me submissive.

They have me omitted  
Then they charge me for participation.

They impede me from going  
Then they charge me for seeking.

They restrict my movements  
Then they want me to be agile.

They castrate my desire  
Then they want me hot with lust.

They take from me my song  
Then they want from me music.

They imprison me in a chastity belt  
Then they charge me for freedom.

They impose upon me models, gestures, attitudes and behaviour  
Then they want me to be unique.

They castrate me, they restrict me, they speak for me and they decide for me  
Then they want me to be complete and absolute.

Such inequality!

— Author unknown, ca. 1920

— English translation from Portuguese by Ælfscine (2007)


	39. Sorrow and Regret

Ishandra : Icy's Tale

Part 2

Chapter 1: Sorrow and Regrets

I find I cannot look at the agora Cat-Witch students in my classes with their pure sapphire-blue eyes without feeling profound sorrow for Matchka and deep pangs of guilt knowing that fratricide has now been added to the list of my many crimes. The hate and desire for revenge that separated us has now mutated into feelings of grief and great loss that now unite us. It does not matter if it is one's mother or one's sister. Blood is still blood and pain, grief and anger run deep. And now Matchka is on her home world where yet another indignity will be performed on her person as they rape her mind of any memories or recollections of ever knowing the pains and joys of having a sibling. And most likely, they will also root out all memory traces of me and my sisters because that is exactly what "adjusting" is – a selective purging of memories. Why could she not tell me? Why this game? Was she that afraid of me? Was it stubborn feline pride? Or did the pain run too deep to give it expression? If she could have just opened her heart to me then there might of been reconciliation. Now there is no chance of it. At night, I find myself weeping and voicing my grief while in the embrace of wings yet through my tears I feel the grip of anger loosen as the cage of ice imprisoning my heart breaks and begins to melt to the sound of gentle purring.


	40. The Docks

Chapter 2: The Docks

I have been assigned five classes: three which are elementary and two which are advanced. The advanced classes require a lot of preparation which I should be doing at my desk at Professor Zarathustra's office except now she has taken that area over completely to do her research leaving me without even a spot to set down a glass of water. Thankfully, she has granted me a measure of autonomy in this matter so my ample study in our apartment has become my office way from the office. This works out well. With Darcy away at her job most of the day and Stormy taking her classes across the way in Ælfscine's apartment I am left pretty much undisturbed to do my work.

I have just put up onto the bookshelves all my material from Professor Zarathustra's office and arranging it to my liking when I remember that some of my books are still in a storage box in my room. I go to my room, levitate the box and send it to my study where I overturn it to dump its contents onto the floor. As I do, something of glittering gold drops out and spirals to the corner of the room where it comes to a stop. I pick up the golden sphere which feels warm to the touch and without thinking bring it to my nose to sniff at. But instead of a scent the fills me with a longing for home, it is one that is relaxing as if it were trying to apologize for having captured me in its trance at that critical moment when Stormy was in distress. Yet, even without the urge to set it spinning on my fingertip, I am again in the grip of its spell.

I turn fourteen and, suddenly, I blossom into womanhood – tall and slender with firm dog-ear breasts and a full hourglass figure. My hair is raven but catches the light, my dark eyes shine brightly, my legs are long, straight and shapely, my back is properly curved, my teeth are white and free of decay and my skin is without blemish. I proudly wear dresses without the aid of bodices, bustiers, girdles, hoops or other contraptions – and I catch the eye of every man I pass. I have learned well from my mother how to smile, curtsey, dance and speak like a lady. I welcome it all with joy. I soon realise, though, that being a beautiful woman and a lady is fine at home and at court but on the docks it is a dangerous combination.

There is a outburst of excitement in our house as news reaches us that The Stormy has been sighted returning to port after her long two-year voyage to the New World. My mother receives this news with cautious joy because we have not as yet heard if my father is aboard her or of his well-being. Still, we are bustling around the house making sure that all is neat and tidy and as it should be. My mother is chirping and twittering about what special meal she would be preparing to welcome my father home. When we hear that The Stormy is finally within port waters, we hurry to wash ourselves, anoint our bodies with perfume and dress ourselves in our finest apparel.

I'm standing in front of the full-length mirror admiring myself in my midnight-blue dress with the silver stitching and blue-white lace – the gift from my father that, finally, I can wear with grace.

"You are going to wear out your reflection," teases my mother with a smile of pride for the young woman before her. "Here let me adjust this," she says turning the sleeves slightly so they rest squarely upon my shoulders. "Now," she says in more serious tones, "here is an extra little ornament you keep hidden next to your body," and places in my hand a slender object in an unadorned brown case with tethers. "It belonged to your grandmother and now it is yours," she says as I examine the stiletto dagger. I pull the dagger slightly from its sheath to reveal the thin double-edged and wickedly sharp blade. "Tie it to your thigh, make sure it is secure and well hidden under your dress and don't breath a word about it or show it to anyone while you are on the docks."

"Is this really necessary?" I ask my mother, uneasy about wearing this new "ornament".

"Isha," replies my mother gently, "you are past the age and have attained a form and stature that no longer allows you to bob your hair and pass as a youth. We are supposed to be living in a civilized society where a woman should be safe on the streets and even on the docks but the sad reality is there may come a time where you have to defend your honour with a little more than a sharp word, a slap in the face or with your nails and teeth. Having a little edge for your defence, should that need arise, is better than losing you honour."

"I see, Mamma," I reply while strapping the dagger to my thigh and testing that it is secure.

"Now let me see you walk," says my mother. "No, no, no! You're walking with that leg stiff. That's a dead give-away that there is something tied to it," she scolds. "If you tied it properly to you, it should not show at all when you walk. Now try to forget that it's there and walk normally. That's better but now you're locking your knees. You're walking on dry land, Isha, not on the deck of a ship tossing upon the heaving waves. Honestly, girl," laughs my mother, "I think at times there is more seawater in your veins than blood. There is no mistaking you for being anyone other than your father's daughter."

Now I am laughing and almost lose all composure. I try again and manage to get it all together and to my mother's satisfaction. "There," she says with satisfaction, "now you are walking like a lady. Now remember to keep your eyes forward, your back and shoulders straight and your chin level to the ground. You don't ingratiate yourself with people walking around like Madam Pompadour on her high horse with her nose stuck in the air," and despite myself I start laughing again but this time she is laughing with me.

We walk, my mother and I, in a leisurely fashion down the pathway to the docks. We arrive and find that the port is congested with many ships waiting to dock. Already at dock are a number of large cargo ships as well as a French man-o-war debarking yet more of the much despised French troops. Judging from the amount of baggage, equipment and supplies being unloaded, they are obviously expecting to be here for a long stay.

It is past high noon but still the sun is hot and, because of the crowd waiting around, my mother and I find that all the shady areas are occupied so we are forced to remain out in the sun. My mother has draped shawl over her head to protect it and her neck and for a time is content to sit and chat with neighbours and friends. Soon, however, the difference in age between us starts to show as my mother begins to feel herself wilting under the weight of the sun. When a neighbour offers to walk her back home sheltering her under her large parasol she quickly accepts and gets up to leave after looking around to see how many neighbours and trusted friends remain.

"I'm on my way back home, Isha," she tells me. "I'll see you and, hopefully, your father there soon. Try to get under some shade as soon as you can and make sure you come home with someone we know if The Stormy does not make it in."

The hours pass but The Stormy still has not made it to the docks where her crew can debark and her cargo holds can be unloaded. The dock workers are labouring at a frantic pace trying to get as much done before the setting of the sun makes it too dangerous or impossible to work. One by one my friends and neighbours leave but I am too committed to waiting for my father to leave despite being left by myself.

I do not feel any worry or discomfort waiting by myself on the docks even with the oncoming late evening. The docks are, undeniably, in the toughest, most rough-and-tumble quarter of our village but from my home it is only about a half hour walk there where my father's warehouses are also located and where I played and grew up. And I am not always the golden child. My mother has long ago given up on dressing me up in pretty dresses when I go out to play. More often I look like a little ragamuffin wearing dresses made of sturdy cloth with several patches on them, my face dirty and my hair mussed. Each evening before allowing me to sit at the table for the evening meal, my mother swears that she has to scrub away several pounds of dirt just to find the little girl underneath it. And, like any child, I find plenty of ways to get into trouble and as often as not Muta is in on it too and together we manufacture mischief as only the company of Witch and Faerie Incorporated can. My mother tolerates a lot from us yet we are never allowed to get away unpunished for doing anything really bad. She somehow always learns about it and we two scallywags arrive home to find her waiting for us with a paddle that she liberally uses to educate my brain on the finer points of good behaviour through my bottom that failed to reach it through my ears. And by my mother, what is good for a naughty little Witch is also good for a naughty little Faerie as Muta suddenly learns when she finds her wings pinned and her bottom also paddled a bright rosy red at my mother's hand for her part in the mischief-making. Yet, no matter how naughty we have been, she always has love aplenty for the two of us as her true daughter and her informally adopted one.


	41. Pretty Maid Ahoy

Chapter 3: Pretty Maid Ahoy!

The Stormy finally makes it to dock and the gangplank is lowered but I cannot just rush up it searching for my father. No, I have to wait for one of the senior ship's crew to invite me aboard. So I continue to wait in the ever growing dark. I hear noise at the top of the gangplank and approach the foot of it expecting to see my father descending but instead it is a group of young sailors. I recognise none of them nor they me. They are perhaps men mustered just before setting sail now returning home from overseas. Whoever they are, they have me surrounded in a moment – every manjack of them burning to take me by the hand and run off with me to Tibet. Of course none of them asks me if I want to be carried off to Tibet. For what other possible reason am I out here late in the evening standing at the foot of the gangplank alone and gussied to the hilt if I were not waiting for these fine young tars to come carry me off to Tibet? But then an argument breaks out as to who among them would have the honour of sweeping me of to Tibet which quickly escalates into a scuffle and then an all-out brawl. I duck out of harm's way as fists go flying but the ruckus does not last long before someone cries "soldiers" and the fighting comes to an abrupt halt at the sound of shouting and booted feet marching at the double-quick. It may have been different if these soldiers were Italian but they were not. They are part of a garrison of French soldiers left by our king's brother Napoleon Bonaparte. Their orders are simple: guard the port and maintain order at any cost. The French commanders take these orders as issuing them a_ carte blanche _to charge into any disturbance whatsoever with muskets and pistols blazing first and to ask questions after. Even to be seen departing with undue haste is enough to get a musket ball through one's back without warning. The soldiers surround the rowdy bunch as my father comes down the gangplank with a half-cocked pistol tucked behind his broad belt. Behind him is his burly bosun smacking a belaying pin in his meaty palm and behind him is the bosun's mate and several The Stormy's crew all porting muskets fully cocked.

"What is going on here?" demands my father in Italian using his most authoritarian of captains voice.

"Are these your men, Captain?" asks the sergeant in command of the soldiers.

"Aye, that they are," replies my father with a scowl of displeasure for each of these unruly rogues.

"They have been disturbing the peace," continues the sergeant. "I should arrest them and have them made an example of."

My father quickly scans the area and spies me standing a little ways off in the half light.

"You must forgive these lads, Sergeant," says my father in more congenial tones, "they have been two years at sea all the while never seeing a woman in such fine array. With pay a-jingling in their pockets, I'm sure they meant no harm but were being just a little too eager to regale the lady with their generosity and display of ... er... manly charms. I'm sure that a night spent in the brig and a week of scraping barnacles will cool their desires for rowdiness and any tawit-tawoo."

"Very well, Captain," replies the sergeant glad not to be saddled with the duty of arresting of any of this soon to be very sorry lot, "but there is the matter of paying five francs, (then a solid gold coin the size of a man's thumb-print), a head for releasing them to you and for the services of my men and myself."

Everyone involved knows that this is nothing but a demand to be paid a bribe but my father has realistic fears for his mostly English crew ending up in a French held prison and decides to pay the requested amount. Meanwhile, I am still standing in the half light just a few yards away.


	42. The Azure Prince

Chapter 4: The Azure Prince

"Is the lady in need of assistance?" asks a male voice behind me in hesitant and thickly accented Italian.

"No, the lady is in no need of assistance," I half snarl without turning in French deliberately accented to sound as bad as the speakers Italian.

I turn around to face the speaker and instantly put a hand to my mouth now regretting my hasty retort. The speaker is no commoner nor is he a rough-handed rank and file soldier but a French officer elegantly attired in his uniform. But he cannot be French or Italian unless he is perhaps from Lombardy. He is more likely Austrian or from the German speaking regions of Switzerland. I am captured by a face that is rectangular with an almost lantern jaw, with clear white skin that is almost radiant, with golden shoulder length hair, with a broad, gently smiling mouth and blue eyes like my father's that seem to shine even in the half light. I stand there for a moment dumbfounded and not knowing what to say.

"Lieutenant Josquin des Prez, at your service, My Lady," pronounces this elegant young officer.

"Oh, are you the same Josquin des Prez who composes..." I begin, my French suddenly vastly improved.

"No," laughs the young lieutenant congenially while shaking his head. "Not unless I'm about to celebrate my four hundredth birthday any time soon. You speak of my great, great and then somewhat great grandfather. I take after the military side of the family. And as for my musical abilities," he adds with a gleam in his eyes, "I can peck out a few tunes on the harpsichord but my singing, I'm told, is fit only to be heard by myself while far offshore in a longboat and at that any sea siren or mermaid within earshot would probably swim swiftly away fleeing for her life."

With that, he breaks down all my resistance and I find myself blushing and giggling behind my hands like a witless little girl. "Who are you really?" I am thinking to myself. "Are you my Azure Prince come down from the sky?"

"You must be musically inclined yourself to know of if my venerable ancestor. What instruments do you play?"

"Flute, transversal flute and harpsichord," I smile.

"I bet you have a beautiful singing voice as well," he smiles back.

"Thank you," I reply.

"You have yet to tell me your name, My Lady," he says.

"Lady Ishandra Di Parma," I tell him, which is not quite the truth but neither is it a lie and extend to him my hand and as he executes a perfect hand kiss, I think, "Yes, you are a gentleman, Josquin, and I bet you have more than a little education to go with it. It is too bad that you are in the enemy camp, so to say."

Lieutenant Des Prez looks up and sees that the sergeant and my father have completed their business, the unruly crew members are being marched or carried up the gangplank and the soldiers are reforming ranks. "Will you walk with me as I rejoin my men," he asks offering me his arm which I take. When he rejoins his men, he releases my arm to return a salute from his sergeant then turning to me asks, "Are you certain, Lady Di Parma, that you do not wish me and my soldiers to escort you home? It is late and this is a dangerous place for a lady to be by herself."

"It is not necessary, Lieutenant Des Prez," I tell him, "for my father is right here to take me home," and I link my arm with my father's who is suddenly very surprised to find this beautiful young woman attaching herself to him until I look up into his face.

"Ishandra? Isha, is that you?" asks my father not quite believing his eyes.

"Yes, Father, it is I," I beam back at him.

Together, my father and I watch the soldiers march away. When they are gone, my father turns to me with a smile on his lips and love and admiration in his eyes. "So, you have grown into a woman since I've been gone. I guess then that I should take you home directly and leave other matters till morning." And then leaning over to me he whispers quietly into my ear, "And I think it is best not to mention any of what just happened to your mother. Let's just say that you accompanied me on a little side trip to do some business, agreed."

"Agreed," I whisper and then we begin our walk home.


	43. The Ungentlemanly Gentleman

Chapter 5: The Ungentlemanly Gentleman

I thought that coming of age would allow me freedoms and the freedom to run my own life. Well, it seems that the only ones to get freedoms are men who think now they have the freedom leer at me up, down and sideways, who thin they have the freedom to discuss in loud and lewd terms the size and shape of my body and female attributes, the state of my fecundity and my willingness and ability in performing certain acts for their carnal pleasures. Even my father, who I thought would be more supportive of me, is boasting about me in a manner more befitting a farmer who has raised a prize cow than a father who has raised a beautiful and intelligent daughter. Now instead of speaking to me as someone with education, intelligence and some position everyone is talking to me as if in attaining young adulthood I have traded my brains for bilge water and sea foam to acquire my feminine figure. Still worst of all is the constant pinching, prodding, patting and poking of my body by men even out in public. It was no accident that women's apparel of the time featured extra padding about the hips and thighs. But I put up with it all like a lady never showing my anger or speaking a harsh word or doing anything offensive in return all the while inside I am seething, gritting my teeth and bitting my tongue until it almost bleeds. Finally, the day comes when I can contain my rage no longer.

My mother and I are taking a stroll along the broadwalk which passes along the front of many of the marketplace shops with enough room for three people to walk comfortably side by side. As we walk along admiring the many items on display in the shop windows some of which are items brought to our port by my father's ships a gentleman is coming towards us on the street side of the broadwalk. He smiles appreciatively at us and tips his hat and we both smile pleasantly back and think that he is going to continue on his way. The next thing, I am letting out a very unladylike shriek from pain shooting up my thigh from having applied to it what in the common is referred to as a "horse bite" from this gentleman walking past us. I don't know what keeps me on my feet but I turn swiftly around and administer to this gentleman a token of my affection in the form of my knee coming up rapidly and slamming with force against a certain sensitive spot below his belt and then I shove him so he goes skittering and sliding off of the end of the broadwalk into the water, mud and other detritus on the cobblestone street. The gentleman, picking himself up, then begins a loud and lewd diatribe in which he besmirches my gender, religion, condition of birth, nationality and status in society and tells me how he now intends to inflict upon my body the corporal punishment befitting such a person. I, in turn, express to him in the colourful and salty lyric of my father and his associates my opinion of his gender, religion, condition of birth, nationality and status in society and go on to tell him by how much is face reminds me of the orifice of the stern region of a certain beast of burden and how his cranial cavity must be filled to overflowing with the foul corruption associated with and excreted from said orifice. Then I explain to him that if it his intention to inflict bodily harm upon me then it is equally my intention that he experience sudden and excruciating pain as I rip his eyeballs from their sockets. With that, I pull off one of my purple velvet gloves to expose my long nails which, through techniques used by certain dancers of the Arabic world and with some use of witchcraft, are as hard, curved and razor-sharp as any hawk's talons.

"Just try it," I snarl as he makes his way towards me, evidently with the full intention of carrying out his threat against me. I feel my mother's hands taking my shoulders and in a voice that is cold and hard she says, "Sir, enough. Begone from us!" He looks aggressively beyond my shoulder to where my mother is standing and is about to have words with her when his expression suddenly mutates from aggression to terror and he turns and flees from us as fast as his wounded pride would permit him. Then, my legs do give from under me and it is only my mother's quick and supportive arm that saves me from crashing onto the boardwalk.


	44. All men are dogs!

Chapter 6 : All Men Are Dogs!

I must have passed out for a few moments but I come to in a seated position on the boardwalk with my back against a storefront. My mother is the only one beside me. The women, whom I thought would be rushing to my aid, are standing some way off with distressed expressions upon their faces but hesitant as if in fear of crossing some unseen boundary. The men have their hands full too trying to calm skittish and panicking horses and dogs that are putting up a frenzy of whinnying and barking.

«Can you move?» inquires my mother urgently, employing Muta's gift to us of telepathy.

«We have to get off of the streets,» states my mother forcefully, «and I can't levitate you in full view of everyone.» Then I too become aware of what is sending the animals into a panic as I catch a scent emanating from my mother reeking anger the likes of which I would not know again until I come into contact with the Cat-Witch guards of Cloud Tower.

I get up fighting against hip and thigh muscles that don't want to cooperate. With my mother's help, we make it to a small teashop just down the way and tucked around a corner out of sight. Word of the incident has already spread down the street. The teashop attendant escorts us to a quiet booth. Within seconds, a girl shows up with a pot of soothing tea and a plate of small pastries which she very quietly sets down on the table and just as quietly departs after drawing a curtain leaving us to some privacy.

«Have they all gone mad?» I ask my mother once getting some control again of my emotions.

«No, Isha, my sweet. They are just men behaving like men,» she replies. «I'm sorry I have to say that you are partially to blame for this.»

«What are you saying?» I reply angrily. «I didn't do a thing!»

«What is going on?» brakes a third voice into our thoughts.

«I had a confrontation with a very ungentlemanly gentleman,» I tell Muta and send her a visual account from my perspective.

«By the Goddess! Are you all right?» inquires Muta, shocked by the news.

«I'll be all right,» I tell her.

«You are very brave to stand up to him like that,» says Muta, «and I think he got what he richly deserved,» she adds with more than just a touch of frost in her wind-and-leaves voice. «You should have gone for an eye.»

«Muta,» chides my mother, «isn't that a bit vindictive?»

«Maybe so,» replies the telepathic Faerie, «but what makes him think that he can do that and get away unpunished?»

"Well, at least Muta seems to be on my side in this," I'm thinking. «So, how am I partly to blame?» I ask my mother.

«Ishandra,» says my mother in consoling tones, «you are a beautiful, beautiful young woman but you have to learn how to control that new body of yours.»

«How so?» I ask.

«You may not be aware of it,» continues my mother softly, «but right now the way you walk, talk and move is signalling to every man who sees you 'Here I am. I'm young, beautiful, fertile, wet and willing – come get me!' Even when you say 'No', Isha, you make it sound like a come-on. You pass that much woman making such signals under the nose of any normal man and he'll come after you like a starving dog being thrown a piece of meat.»

«And maybe it is because all men are dogs!» I retort angrily, once more breaking down into tears at the thought of my beautiful body having been reduced to a slab of meat fit only to be pounced upon and worried by canine teeth.

«Sadly, Isha,» continues my mother gently lifting my chin, «when it comes to women, men are all about the physical. They are more interested in the beauty of your face, the turn of you calves, the fullness of your breasts and the secrets hidden between your thighs than whatever intelligence or feelings you may have. Most men will willingly marry a woman with the brains of an anchovy if she has the body of Venus.»

«You're right about that,» I sob. «It doesn't seem that long ago when I could still pass myself off as a boy or a youth that men would talk intelligently with me and compliment me on my knowledge and insight. Now that I wear full-figured dresses, I'm suddenly what? – the dumbest thing on two legs – who is supposed to have nothing going on upstairs but thoughts of marriage and producing offspring like a sausage machine. I swear that if all my beauty as a woman gets me is this, I am going to take grandmother's dagger to it and hack it to bloody ruin!»

«Nooo! Isha! No!» gasps Muta, shocked and horrified.

«You can't seriously mean that,» exclaims my mother taking me into her arms and rocking me. «Don't be so quick to throw away the gifts the Goddess has given you. Youth and beauty come only once and fade way fast enough – and neither have to be a burden.»

«We are Witches, Mamma,» I exclaim. «We are beautiful, educated, intelligent and the most powerful women in the country and perhaps the world. Why are we not getting recognition for this? Why are we skulking around in fear of what people might think of us rather that standing up with pride? Perhaps you and Babbo educated me too well. Maybe if I had remained dumb and ignorant of my life and powers as a Witch, I would better fit in with the village and its people. But you and Babbo have shown me the world and my own powers and potentials. I know that there is a better life out there for me where I can develop to my full potential rather than the life of drudgery that awaits me if I remain here. And that better life is what I want for myself and what I will fight for even if it means breaking with tradition.»

We take a carriage home because I'm still too stiff to walk. When I examin myself at home I find a large bruise on my thigh in the shape of a man's hand and fingers but to me it looks more like a pool of black poison beneath my skin working its way in black rivulets throughout my body.

That night, I dream of Josquin with his soldiers standing around me with evil smirks and lust buring in their eyes. I hear Josquin saying, "Fear not, Lady Di Parma, my soldiers and I are here to protect you and take good care of you."

"I just bet you and your soldiers would like to take 'good care of me'," I hear myself snarling back and then the dream slips into oblivion.


	45. The Makeover: I am a Witch!

Chapter 7: The Makeover: "I am a Witch!"

I take to heart my mother's advice on controlling "signals" by first working on my voice. I experiment discovering my true vocal range and in the process discover that I have been talking all the long at near the upper limit of my voice. When I learn to lower it and speak consistently from the mid-range of my voice I find that not only do I speak in a pleasant mezzo but I begin to command attention rather than demand it. I also learn that from this starting point I am left plenty of range for expression. I study my mother and adopt from her the traits most appropriate for me.

Next I purge all the remaining girlish traits from my speech and behaviour such as giggling inappropriately and using girlish words that were endearing for a child but sound trite and affected coming out of the mouth of a young woman.

I realize, that although I love my gorgeous, lace-adorned dresses, that I would never be taken seriously if I continue to dress like a frilly-frolly who has barely the brains to go "tee-he-he" behind a fan. I need a costume that is still feminine but be the garb of someone who commands respect. I search through all in the house to come up with an inspiration. I find a leather jerkin that is said to be a part of my grandfather's uniform which fits me well. I then look for pants to complete it. I find a pair of leather pants that belong to my father but, although we are the same height at the hip, I find the legs riding up my calves and the waist much too narrow to get about my hips. But now I still have a model and a clear idea of what I want.

In the meantime, I purchase other items to go with my costume: some high stiletto boots which are easy to procure as also is a black cloak. I keep my eyes open while walking around the docks for other ideas and find one in the high pony tails of some seamen from some far off country. But unlike their shoulder length hair, my head of thick and heavy raven hair is down to my hips. It takes me several trials that either flop or pull on my hair so badly that by the end of the day I have a splitting headache before I get it right. The trick, it turns out, is the pure physics of having the leather tower thick enough and tall enough and placed on just the right spot on my head so the stress is taken up by my skull bone without putting strain on my hair and its roots. When I get it down to perfection both my parents and the entire village are impressed.

I am strolling the back streets of the docks looking for a tailor who could make my costume for me. There are plenty seamstresses around who make women's clothing – if you want lace and frills – but leather is not a popular material for women's apparel and few know the art of working it. It takes a week but I finally find the shop of a maker of fishermen's clothing with leather pants like my father's hung out on display.

I walk in and the old tailor, whom I will come to know as Fabrizio, looks up and smiles as I enter. "To what do I owe this honour, My Lady?" he asks. I bring out my model and he seems to interested in my design until he comes to realize that the garment I am intending for him to make is for me and not something I was ordering on behalf of my father, husband or some other male relation and that I would be paying for it. At that point, the conversation goes cold.

"I do not make women's clothes," states Fabrizio flatly, "and how do you," – implying that I am a woman – "expect to pay for this garment with all the expensive material and also the hours of work it will require?"

This, I came prepared for and, reaching into a secret pocket in my dress, I bring forth a fistful of gold and silver coins of various denominations and nationalities and slap it down on the table under his nose.

"Mother of God!" exclaims Fabrizio, sweeping it all quickly into a drawer. "Lady, you have guts carrying around this much on your person. Men get themselves killed for just one of these," he says, holding up a forty lira gold piece – then a solid gold coin the diameter of one's thumb from the bottom to the tip.

"Fine," I tell him, keeping my dark eyes fixed on his, "so I have guts but does this cover the cost of my costume or does it not?"

"It most certainly does," he replies honestly, "and then some."

"Then it does not matter that the garment is for me or that I'm a woman, does it," I tell him, my voice calm and cold.

"No," he replies, "it does not but I still have to take your measurements."

A month later I am back and Fabrizio looks like he is going to start dancing for joy as I enter the shop. "I've finished it, Lady Di Parma," he tells me excitedly while shoving a package into my hands. "Please, go to the back room and try it on."

I go into the room and open the package. Within it is a black leather top and matching pants. I feel the texture of the leather in my hands and it is like a soft caress and when I slip on the pants, they fit me like a glove. I put on the top, which also fits me perfectly, do up the belt and then step out of the room.

"This is the first time I have ever stitched anything for a lady," says Fabrizio, smiling. "I has been quite a challenge but I found myself becoming more and more excited about it as I was working on it. Rest assured, Lady Di Parma, that I am an honest man who takes great pride in his work. I have used every skill to ensure that the costume is as perfect as you could want it. I did, however, make a few alterations to your original design which I'm sure you will appreciate."

"Oh?" I say, not having noticed any change.

"First of all," he says taking one of my hands, "the sleeves are designed to be worn one of two ways. Usually, leather clothing is not made with sleeves that fit so tightly against the skin. I have designed the sleeves so they can be opened thus to allow circulation. The pant legs are also designed the same way."

"Good," I tell him, nodding with approval. "What else?"

"I don't know how aware you are of this, Lady Di Parma," continues Fabrizio, "but you cannot encase yourself so completely in leather without leaving some area of you body exposed so it can breath through the skin. If you do not have a breathing spot, you will faint in no time. Now, most women's clothing, I have noticed, is open in the back but I got to thinking that you would like something a little different. I could not help but notice while measuring you how firm, flat you stomach is and how well cut your abdominals are so I made the breathing spot there where they could be shown to an advantage."

Now I am really smiling and feeling truly flattered because my well defined abdominals are a part of my physique that I am especially proud of.

"Now, with My Lady Di Parma's permission, I would like show her the few ways she can wear the top," he smiles. "You can have it done up as you are now wearing it when the weather is cool or rainy, next it can be opened at the top when My Lady wishes to be a bit cooler and, finally, if My Lady Di Parma wishes to display her... erm... more feminine features to an advantage, it can be further opened and worn in this manner."

I suddenly find myself feeling a bit shy and quickly adjust the front back to where it is open but showing less of my "feminine features" yet, overall, I am pleased with these alterations.

"Lastly," he says, "because there are no pockets, the belt is provided with numerous rings and studs for attaching things to. The are metal rings here to attach a sword or a dagger, some studs to which you can affix a pouch or two and, finally, this latching device is to secure your purse. He then goes to his table and from a drawer fetches a black leather purse. "There was enough leather left over to make this extra item for you. You will notice that it is leather on the inside and outside but between the leather is steel mesh. The drawstring is also steel mesh with a covering of leather. When locked in the latching device on your belt, thus, there is no way any thief can grab it from you nor will any cutpurse be able to practise his art."

I unlatch the purse from my belt to get the feel of how the latching device works. The purse jingles as I remove it and when I open it I find it filled with about half the coins that I had originally slapped down on the table.

"As I have told you, Lady Di Parma," says Fabrizio without any hint of false modesty, "I am an honest man. I have taken only what was required for the material and an fair commission for the work I have done. The rest I return to you."

"Then take, good tailor, what remains as your reward," I tell him while emptying the contents of the purse into his hands, "and as a retainer for when I next require your services."

"Thank you, My Lady," replies Fabrizio and while he secures the money I have given him, I slip off my flat-healed street shoes and pull on the high stiletto boots and drape over my shoulders the black cloak which I have brought with me. I stand up to admire the new-look lady in the full-length mirror.

I am taking in my new look when Fabrizio remarks, "I would never have believed that any woman could look so beautiful in such clothes, My Lady, but you look truly gorgeous," he says with a smile and a twinkle in his eyes.

Then it all hits me. "What have I done!" I think to myself, looking at the new woman in the mirror. "What have I really achieved but the transformation of myself from being one man's vision of his dream woman to another man's vision of the same? But then, maybe it will still work out for me." Then aloud I cry, "I am a Witch!" while raising my hand in a defiant fist above my head. "Lady Di Parma," gasps Fabrizio, turning pale and crossing himself several times, "I pray by all that is holy under Heaven that you certainly are not!"

When I arrive home, both my parents are there. But with my boots raising me a half head higher and my high pony tail adding another hand above my father, his admiration of the new-look lady is at a distance. My mother, on the other hand, takes one look at my new garb and immediately hates it.

«Please, Mamma, don't look at me that way,» I plea with her telepathically. «I really need your support and understanding right now.»

«I do understand, Isha, and you shall always have my support,» my mother's voice whispers sadly in my head, «but I just wish you had chosen another way.»


	46. The Sword

Chapter 8: The Sword

I am in my father's warehouse searching for a sword to replace my grandmother's dagger for the venerable blade did not fit well on my utility belt nor did its scabbard's faded brown colour blend well with a solid black of my new apparel. After some searching, I do find a sword but it is not designed to fit my utility belt either, but rather, to be strapped to my calf with tethers. I pull the sword with its slightly curved blade from its black scabbard to admire the sharpness of its edge and the inscription written in Arabic script that is so stylised I cannot read a word. I strap it to my calf, test that it is secure, don my cloak, and head out.

El Fairuz, known for her turquoise trim and distinctive square turquoise sail, has just slipped into dock and her crew is securing her as I approach. She is a coastal ship of considerable size that does a thrice yearly circuit of the Mediterranean Sea visiting every port of call along the way before reaching our port in Italy. Her captain is Abraham whom I have known since childhood and who is a long-standing trading partner of my father's.

"Peace be with you," I greet them in Arabic as I approach.

"Peace be also with you, Ishandra," they greet me.

The men stand looking at me not knowing quite what to make my new outfit, or, perhaps uncertain about what would be an appropriate comment.

"What do you think of it?" I ask while turning slowly so they could take full advantage of looking at all sides.

"Very impressive," remarks Michael.

Abraham, however, catches sight of this sword strapped to my calf. "May I see your sword," he asks. Carefully, I draw it from its scabbard and place it into his hand. "A very nice sword," he remarks, "and a very fine piece of Moroccan workmanship. Do you know what kind of a sword this is?" When I shake my head, he continues, "It is a camel rider's or horse rider's sword. It is not a primary weapon. It is the one that you keep hidden to draw upon should your primary weapon be dropped or knocked out of your hand during battle. It is, however, of good weight and balance for a woman's hand. You have chosen well for yourself," he adds and I smile.

Abraham hands back the sword to me which I slip back into its scabbard. Then, looking me in the eyes, he asks seriously, "Have you been trained with this sword or know how to fight with it?"

"No," I tell him honestly.

"Then you should not wear it," he says.

"Why not?" I ask him.

"All it will bring you is trouble," he replies.

" I think I can handle myself," I tell him.

"Fine," he says, "let's see if you really can."

We draw our swords and have at each other. I feel that I am doing well meeting him blow for blow but then he does a manoeuver with his feet that has me down on my hands and knees on the dock. A boot to my butt has me sprawling and the sword clattering out of my hand.

"Get up," orders Abraham so I get up and again we have at each other. This time I keep an eye out for fancy footwork but, even though I believe I'm holding my own, I make another bad move and a large fist goes crashing into my midriff and I am again on the dock – doubled up, retching, fighting unconsciousness – the sword once more fallen from my hand.

"Get up," orders Abraham but I'm too busy holding onto my gut and retching to obey so he takes me by my arm and stands me up on my feet. "Ishandra, listen to me..." begins Abraham but I'm angry and turn my face away from him only to have my ears set ringing and cheek burning from a solid backhand.

"How dare you strike me!" I scream at him. "How dare you!"

This time he is holding me by both shoulders and forcing me to look straight at him. "Yes," he replies even-temperedly, "how dare I strike you but for your sake I would strike you a thousand time if this is what it takes to get what I need to say to you through your stupid little girl's head."

"What do you mean 'stupid little girl'?" I rage at him.

"I mean 'stupid little girl'," replies Abraham sounding exasperated. "Ishandra, do you think this is some child's game you're playing like pretend tea parties with rag dolls and make-believe tea served in little china cups? Then wake up, Ishandra. If you get yourself entangled in sword play, no one will go easy on you because you're a woman nor give you time to rest when you get tired. No, Ishandra. If you get into a fight untrained as you are there will be only one outcome: you shall die."

"You don't know what or whom you are dealing with, Abraham," I'm thinking blackly. "I'm a Witch and could have defeated you in a number of ways. I could have levitated or have turned myself invisible and stabbed you through your heart from behind at anytime, Abraham, anytime." But aloud I say, "At least, I fought fairly and didn't resort to dirty tricks to win."

"Ishandra," says Abraham sadly, "that is a noble thought but naive. The reality is that in a fight such as this you have to use every skill and every trick you know to ensure your survival and your opponent's undoing."

I look beyond Abraham to the rest of the crew standing about expecting to see smiles and smirks but every face among them is earnestly sober. "Listen to Abraham, Isha," says Michael, "he speaks wisely," and the others nod their heads in solemn agreement.

"And what if, by chance, you should manage to subdue your opponent?" asks Abraham. "Do you not realize that you shall be cursed with the guilt of that man's blood forever? You, your family and your children for seven generations. There is no taking it back, no undoing it and, in these cases, Allah does not forgive you. Think on it, Ishandra. Is this what you really want – eternal damnation?"

Abraham has me give up my sword and its scabbard and then looking at me sadly says, "I know your customs are not mine but since I've know you, you have always been polite and respectful. What unholy spirit has possessed you, Ishandra? Not only are you dressed like a_ jinnyah _but you are acting like one. A dark evil spirit, Ishandra, full of anger, hate, spite and rebellion." Then shaking his head, he continues, "Have you no idea how blessed you are among women, how many gifts Allah has laid at your feet? You are beautiful, literate, intelligent and skilled in commerce and negotiation. Your mother, I hear, is training you to be a healer. I wish I had sons with half these talents. Then add to it that you are fluent in seven languages..."

"Eight," I mumble.

"Eight!" says Abraham, surprised and for a brief moment smiling. "You will have to tell me about this new language. But, still, you have been given all these gifts and blessings to do good. Whatever evil has you in its coils, rise above it, Ishandra. You are better by far than it. For the sake and love of Allah, rise above it and crush its ugly head beneath the heel of you foot lest it drag you down to where there is only shame and dishonour for you and your family and your own doom."

Later, I take time to think on Abraham's words and, although I do not believe in his god Allah, the words of the Goddess are the same. The Goddess is gentle and nurturing of all life and She does not condone the taking of it. Moreover, and especially for Witches, She exacts harsh punishments against those Witches who abuse their powers and use them to do evil and cause harm to others.


	47. Raqs Sharqi Belly Dance

**Chapter 9: Raqs Sharqi (Belly Dance)**

The call of the salt sea runs deep in my veins for not only am I born a Witch but also a wharf rat or a_ topo di ponte, _as my people call us, and soon I am back on the docks standing before El Fairuz. An improvised tent has been erected by attaching one end large camelhair canvass to the ship's larboard and affixed on the other end by two poles mounted in two stone supports on the dock. Similarly, two canvass walls are hung on either side, thus creating a three sided shelter. Before it is a kind of brazier upon which sits a large_ dallah _in which is stewing thick, black coffee. Inside I see Michael, some other members of the crew and a number of men who have obviously come to do trade. But even if I want to, I am not permitted to shout greetings or enter into the shelter while trade is being discussed by men unless specifically invited. So, I bide my time sitting on some cargo boxes outside the shelter. I stretch out my legs, brace my arms behind me lean back and tilt my head upwards with my long, raven ponytail trailing behind my shoulders and allow the sun to shine upon my face.

I listen to the haggling among the men – so many sacks of this being traded for so may baskets of that, so many bolts of this cloth for so much gold or silver and a dram of costly scented oil going cheap for so many thousands of something else. Finally, the bargaining is at an end and agreements have been reached and now it is time to celebrate the conclusion of business with music and song but still I must wait. My head and shoulders are swaying as I listen to the sweet notes of a_ ney _weaving around the rhythms laid down by a_ daf _and a _tonbak. _I watch Zabad's deft fingers ripple up and down the length of his ney as he plays. Zabad, who is trying to concentrate on his playing, is also watching me and making a great effort to suppress an ever growing smile which finally becomes so large that he blows a dreadfully sour note and the music comes to a halt.

"Go to her," Michael encourages him. "Yes, go to her," encourage the others as Zabad puts down his ney and exits the shelter.

"Peace be with you, Isha," Zabad greets me as I stand up to greet him.

"Peace be also with you, Zabad," I greet him, who, while I am wearing my high stiletto boots, comes just to my chin.

"That is still some outfit," remarks Zabad, grinning, "but it is as Abraham says. It makes you look like a_ jinnyah. _You even have pointed ears like one."

"I do not have pointed ears!" I begin to protest but then see the mischief shining brightly in his dark brown eyes. "Oh, you!" I scold. "And don't speak to me of Abraham. I'm still angry with him."

"Awww, Isha," says Zabad, still not quite able to hide his amusement over the short version of my name, "don't be like that! Abraham may be a little roughshod in his ways but he loves you like a daughter. We all love you, Isha," he says with a note of concern and a catch in his voice. "All of us would be devastated were some evil to befall you."

There is an awkward pause then Zabad looks up at me smiling disarmingly. "Ishandra?" he asks with an inflection in his voice which means he is not sure whether or not he is about to commit some cultural taboo.

"What is it, Zabad?" I ask the curly-topped young man.

"Err... we were wondering... err... we would like to ask..." he stammers while voices from the shelter whisper, "Go ahead! Ask her!" Finally, he takes a deep breath and almost blurts, "It would find pleasure in our eyes if you were to consent to dance for us."

"Dance for you?" I ask, flattered but greatly surprised. "Ah... ah... Well, ah... I've never danced to your kind of music before. I'm not sure that I can and I'm sure anything I do would be anything but pleasing unto your eyes."

"Say 'yes'," says a voice from deep within me. "You are a Witch and we Witches have been dancing to this music for generations. We will guide you, Sister." Then I find myself wanting to dance as if at this moment nothing else mattered. "Sure," I tell him, "I'd love to dance for you but this is hardly a_ bedlah _I'm wearing."

"It will do," grins Zabad widely then hastens to return to the shelter and pick up his ney.

The percussionists start with a gentle "dom dom tak-a dom, dom tak-a dom" as I take a first few tentative steps. But then, the spiked heel of my stiletto boot hits an uneven part of the dock and I have to do some quick recovery steps to keep standing. The music halts and there are concerned looks from inside the shelter.

"Obviously, I cannot dance in these," I tell them while sitting on a crate to remove my boots more easily. Meanwhile, the news is rapidly spreading across the docks that there is dancer at El Fairuz and soon there is a sizable crowd of spectators gathered around me. I have picked up my boots and am looking for an out of the way place to put them when I hear shouted from behind me, "Ah-har! I be likin' the keel o' that'un," by a rough-sounding sailor's voice.

"I be agreein' wit' yer," shouts another equally rough-sounding voice. "But I'd be mindin' me tongue 'bout 'er, Jack-O, me boy. She looks mean enough to eat yer up alive, spit out yer bones 'n' larf about it."

"Right," replies the voice identified as Jack-O, "bain't none 'ere though who wouldn't sell 'is gran'ma to Davy Jones to have that'un dance for 'im every night," to which in reply is a chorus of enthusiastic arrr's.

"We've forgotten something," calls Zabad as he rushes up to me and attaches finger cymbals to each of my hands. I barely have time to reflect on this when the percussion starts up again:

Dom dom tak-a dom, dom tak-a dom!  
Da-da-dom dom tak-a dom, dom tak-a dom!

This time, I hear the steps being called out as I move: umi, maya, half-maya, shimmy. Consciously, I do not understand but, sub-consciously, my body is responding smoothly to each command.

Dom dom tak-a dom, dom tak-a dom!  
Da-da-dom dom tak-a dom, dom tak-a dom!

The sweet sounds of Zabad's ney begin to weave in, out and about the rhythm of the percussion as the voices within me encourage me to move my hips thus, my head so and my arms in this manner as my body bends and sways as I dance barefoot to the exotic rhythms.

Dom dom tak-a dom, dom tak-a dom!  
Da-da-dom dom tak-a dom, dom tak-a dom!

"_Sagat!"_ commands a voice and I set the finger cymbals to chiming.

Ching ching chak-a ching, ching chak-a ching!  
Cha-cha-ching ching chaka-a ching, ching chak-a ching!

Dom dom tak-a dom, dom tak-a dom!  
Da-da-dom dom tak-a dom, dom tak-a dom!

Other instruments join the initial trio. First is a large drum which takes up the main beat. The tonbak begins to play intricate tak rhythms to the ground. The reedy voice of a_ mizmar _takes up the melody as Zabad's ney weaves exotic ornamentations between its notes. Then, with subtle witchcraft, I make my contribution to the beat of the large drum by timing my heel to come down with it and sending subsonic reverberations through the dock. Fingers snap and hands clap in rhythm as I dance and move with it along the docks – my high ponytail swaying in counterpoint to the movement of my hips.

Dom dom tak-a dom, dom tak-a dom!  
Da-da-dom dom tak-a dom, dom tak-a dom!

Ching ching chak-a ching, ching chak-a ching!  
Cha-cha-ching ching chaka-a ching, ching chak-a ching!

"Shimmy!" commands a voice which I do to shouts of "Ya Isha! Ya Isha! Ya Habibi!" from the larboard and "Shake 'em some more, me jolly wench!" from the docks.

The dance comes to its finale as, with the last beat of the large drum, my heel comes down sending a bass-boom reverb through the docks that even Musa would be proud of. A roar of shouts and applause rises up from the crowd. Someone hands me a cloth and a glass of minted tea that I sip and then begin to wipe myself down. A young girl breaks from the crowd and comes running towards me.

"Ya Isha! Ya Isha!" she cries excitedly. "You are so beautiful and I love the way you dance. I want to learn to dance like you, too!"

"Thank you, dearest," I tell her.

"Carmela!" shouts a woman's angry voice and then I see her hasten to the child. "Get away from that... that... that harlot!" and with that she fixes me with a hot, hostile look and then taking the child's hand disappears with her into the crowd.

"It seems that not all here appreciate the grace of a belly dancer," says a voice behind me and I turn to find myself looking into Abraham's eyes. "I think you did well. It's too bad that my daughter Nadia was not here to watch you. She also loves to dance and I know she would have been begging me to let her dance along with you."

"So it would seem and thank you," I reply knowing that Nadia's dancing makes her somewhat of a celebrity in her country.

A large crowd still remains as the impromptu orchestra starts up again and many eyes are fixed on me in hope that I would dance once more for them. But I'm still a bit out of breath from the effort of the first dance and not in the mood to dance any more. I finish wiping myself down, slip on my boots and sit to drink tea with my eyes diverted from the crowd in the hope that all would take the hint and disperse. "It does not look like this crowd is about to break up anytime soon," observes Abraham. "Perhaps it is for the best that some of the crew and I take you though it and escort you home."

Five of us walk through the crowd without incident. Then, at the edge of the crowd, we come face-to-face with a trio of the ugliest old women I have ever seen. They stand before us dressed in black with hoods over their heads. Their faces are boney and deathly grey, their small eyes buried so deeply into their sockets they can barely be seen and their long noses are crooked downward as if trying to unite themselves with their pointy and upwardly bent chins.

"Temptress! Strumpet!" the first two hiss at me as we pass by. "Codpiece bait!" croaks the third and ugliest of them then hacks and spits at my feet.

Furious, I turn on my heels and I am about to tell them how quickly they will sing a different tune once I finish knocking what remains of their rotten teeth out of their skulls. "Walk on!" warns a voice within me. "Turn yourself around and walk on, Sister. You will have to deal with them by-and-by but today you are not powerful enough to tangle with those three... not even by half." So with teeth clenched and anger roiling in my intestines, I turn and rejoin Abraham and the group escorting me home.


	48. Stormy the Brat

Chapter 10: Stormy the Brat

Three months have come and gone uneventfully. The students have written their midterms and are looking forward to celebrating the Winter Solstice which is always a good excuse for cutting loose and enjoying oneself. I, however, am stuck with several shelves crammed to capacity with exam papers that need to be corrected – a task that does not do itself nor can it be done with magic. I am filled with mixed emotions over the nights of burning the midnight and early morning oil I will face for the next three weeks.

Stormy, according to Ælfscine's weekly reports over these past three months, is making progress albeit slowly but steadily. There were a few days of hostilities among the four children as they struggled to establish a pecking order. Steorra, the Ferret-morph Witch child, becomes the obvious alpha member of the four being the most advanced in maturity and stability, the most intelligent and, although not the strongest, being the one possessing speed, agility, and deadly efficient teeth and claws. Despite her alpha standing, Steorra never forces the issue and refuses to involve herself in any squabbles among the other three children as they struggled to be beta, gamma and delta of the group. Stormy seems not to care one way or another that Steorra has established herself as leader. What stirs Stormy's caldron is when Bemeba, the blue-skinned troll child, tries to bully herself into the beta position by first picking on Wesle, the Faerie child. Stormy rushes to Wesle's defence and a fight breaks out between Bemeba and her. Bemeba knocks Stormy down and bloodies her nose but Stormy retaliates with a bolt of lightning that, although much attenuated by her Whisperian crystal, is still enough to blister Bemeba's blue bottom and send her packing and yelping like a kicked dog. On the positive side, Bemeba is, finally, getting it through her thick troll skull that being nice to people and saying "please" and "thank you" gets her more cooperation – and more yummy candy – than "gimme or big-bad-da-boom!"

Wesle, now finding a protector and companion in Stormy, has responded by attaching herself even more so to Stormy so the two are almost joined at the hip and possibly, (although I keep this opinion strictly to myself), have also become bonded one to another. The result of this is that, much to Darcy's displeasure, Stormy is learning Alfean more rapidly and is vastly more fluent in it than she is in Witchspeak which she is also beginning to relearn. She has even come to sprinkling Alfean into what Witchspeak she knows and I hear Alfean words being slipped into the conversation when she speaks Gaelic with Darcy. What irks Darcy even more is that I am encouraging Stormy to learn Alfean and I speak it with her, correcting her grammar and pronunciation and teaching her the more traditional words and phrases replacing the Alfean baby-talk she has been picking up from Wesle. After a loud and long argument on the subject, Darcy and I decided to agree to disagree over what advantage there is in allowing Stormy to learn Alfean and we agreed that, on alternate days, everyone, including Stormy, would speak nothing but Witchspeak. I also tell Darcy that if she wants Stormy to learn Witchspeak then don't give into her by speaking Gaelic no matter how much and how loudly she protests. That much, at least, Darcy and I can agree on.

It is early evening just after dinner. Darcy has gone out for the evening and Stormy is in the playroom. I think that I will have a quiet evening to get a start on correcting exams. Stormy, however, has different ideas. She has recently learned the Witchspeak word for "aunt" which is "t'hati" and is repeating it with all manner of inflection and variation while hammering away tunelessly on a toy piano.

"T'hati!" ( plink! plonk! ) "T'haaati" ( plank! plink! plink! ) "T'ha-t'ha-tatiiii! T'hat-i-i-i!" ( Plank! plank! plink! plank! plonk! )

"Stormy?!" I cry, rushing into the playroom. "T'hati!" exclaims Stormy, looking at me with a disarming smile on her woman-child's face and soft blue light glowing in her eyes as she hold out her arms to me. "Huggies?"

"Okay, huggies," I tell her taking my precious Little One into my arms and hugging her. "But you are going to have to play quietly for me because I have a lot of work to do." I take away the toy piano and put it on a high shelf and then bring out a box of rag dolls and similar toys which she takes to paying with.

I go back to my study and begin again to correct papers. Within fifteen minutes, Stormy starts up with the "t'hati" song again and is once more banging away on the toy piano which she has fetched down from the shelf where I put it. (I keep forgetting that she can reach those shelves now.) I take the toy away from her again and send it into my study. This launches Stormy into a tempest of screaming and crying – yes, that much of her personality has not changed – and she will not be consoled. "Stormy, why are you being such a brat tonight?!" I groan as my suds begin to froth. I go to the com, call Ælfscine, and tell her to get over here_ presto._ In a flash, Ælfscine teleports in, and, upon hearing the sounds of someone's little world having come to an end, she is in the playroom on her knees before Stormy cooing to her soothingly in Alfean.

"I want to you to take Stormy to your apartment and take care of her for a few hours," I tell her, explaining my need for quiet time.

"I can do better than that for you," replies Ælfscine. "There is a guest room and an extra bed in my apartment where Stormy can stay the night. That gives you the rest of this evening and all day tomorrow to work undisturbed."

"Perfect," I tell her thankfully and burn a M-E-U to magic up a night bag with Stormy's pj's and a few other items to take over to Ælfscine's.


	49. Cloud Tower We Have A Problem I

Chapter 11: Cloud Tower... We Have A Problem! I

Once again I go back to my study to resume correcting papers but find that I am no longer comfortable there and feel the need for a change of surroundings. I pick up an armful of papers and transport myself to my secret office in the restricted vaults. I am not supposed to have either knowledge of these vaults or access to them but Lady Shakirah, who was headmistress of Cloud Tower before Miss Griffin, became my mentor during my early days at Cloud Tower and took me under her wing. Deep in her dotage and often forgetful and mistaking me for colleagues, most already long dead, Lady Shakirah confides in me the secret of Cloud Tower's restricted and hidden vaults and passes to me the scroll containing their keys and backdoors. Miss Griffin now has the original scroll but I have a copy and have long since committed its contents to memory. Two years after my arrival at Cloud Tower, the old lady passes away and Miss Griffin takes up the reigns of headmistress. Miss Griffin, I'm sure, is aware that I often hang out in the vaults but so long as I am not doing damage, creating mischief for her or otherwise getting into her hair, she is content to let me be.

It is during my shelf browsing that I rediscover the hundreds of manuscripts on the subject of the Dragon Fire that were commissioned by Ardala, the last Witch Guardian of the Dragon Fire, and in some cases written in Ardala's own hand. I have to admit that finding the secret to unlocking her manuscripts came to me somewhat by accident. Ardala's manuscripts are not so much enchanted, as legend would have it, but gimmicked in a manner that is much in keeping with Darcy's stock and trade. The gimmick takes advantage of fact that there is no fixed direction in which Witchspeak is written except that it is always written in complete squares or rectangles and should a line be short, the last letter is written in an extended form so it finishes flush with the margin. The bulk of Witchspeak manuscripts are written with the cover to be opened from the right and the text read from left to right. However, manuscripts with text going down the page in columns or from right to left or even in boustrophedon as well as manuscripts opening from the left are far from uncommon. Late one night during my first year at Cloud Tower, I was reading what I believed was a left-to-right manuscript on history and genealogy when I fell asleep with my head on a page of the book. I awoke with my cheek on one page and my eyes looking at the opposite page from the right. It was then I read different lines of text about the Dragon Fire going right to left. I sit up and the lines going right to left disappear and the lines of the genealogy reading left to right reappear. I again put my cheek against the page of the manuscript where again I am looking to the right and the lines of right-to-left text on the Dragon Fire are again visible. The illuminations along the boarders of each page, I discover, play an illusion-delusion change-up on the eyes and trick the brain into seeing only the left-to-right text and hiding the Dragon Fire text from view. Later, I find I can make a magic light by burning a lamp fuelled with oil in which is added a mixture of metallic salts. Under the lamp's yellow-green illumination the Dragon Fire text stands out clearly and the other text fades into invisibility. It is from these texts that I learned of my lineage starting from Ardala and my destiny as her great and ever so great granddaughter to inherit the Dragon Fire – the results of which are now history and the reasons for which I'm now imprisoned at Cloud Tower.

I place the pile of exams on the table in front of me, sit down wearily and for a long moment just stare at them. "Come on, Icy, you know you have to get these marked. Get back to it, girl," I tell myself. But then myself responds saying, "I have already marked five. How about a wee break and then I'll mark another ten for the evening?" I'm in accord with that so I go to the shelves of Dragon Fire manuscripts and randomly select one from a section of shelving from which I have yet not read any. I sit at the table and in the glow of my magic lamp I open the manuscript to a random page and begin to read – and then my stomach goes cold and I begin to tremble. I hastily turn to the beginning of the chapter and read through it to make sure I have understood it in context and then I read it once more and feel the panic beginning to swell within me. I then copy out the text of that chapter on separate sheets, double check my copy, and, after marking the passage in the original manuscript and extinguishing the lamp's flame, I teleport out of the vault.

I am standing before the door to Miss Griffin's office, my mouth dry, my knees almost knocking and my insides trembling. I breathe deeply several times to regain some self-control and then I stretch out my hand and knock.

"Enter!" I hear Miss Griffin's voice from the other side of the door.

I enter, and surprised to see me, Miss Griffin, who is seated at her great desk, stands to confront me but before she can get that far, I am at her desk placing my sheets before her. "Before saying a word more, read this," I tell her, my voice shaking.

Miss Griffin begins to read first the first sheet then the second. By the third, she is sitting again and by the last she is as white as a ghost. Her knowledge of Ancient Witchspeak is much superior to mine so she has definitely read a lot more from the text than my basic understanding of it. She looks up at me with haunted eyes and I nod and say, "Yes, it is true. We have a problem."

"Bloom," replies Miss Griffin in a whisper.


	50. Cloud Tower We Have A Problem II

Chapter 12: Cloud Tower... We Have A Problem! II

There is a flash as M'Trika teleports in – her vertically slit golden eyes fixing upon me with the look of one who wants to bite off my ears for breakfast. Before she can say a word, however, Miss Griffin shoves my sheets into her clawed hand-paws. "Read," she tells her.

"This had better be worth my bother to be here, Icy," growls the black Panther-morph Witch as she shakes out the sheets in her hand-paw and struggles to read the text before her. Yet, by the last sheet, her ears are canted sideways and she too is visibly shaken. "Where did you get this?" she demands of me. "I have read all five manuscripts on the Dragon Fire that yet remain to us and not one makes mention of this. What is to say that you have not faked the whole thing, young Witch?"

"Not so fast, M'Trika," responds Miss Griffin, her inflection begging everyone to remain calm. "This text is in Ancient Witchspeak a language in which I consider myself to be an expert but not even I can compose text in it of this high caliber. I can vouch that Icy did not compose this text either but that she has copied it from some source document... and yes, Icy, I too want to know from what source this comes."

I really do not want to divulge the secret of my discovery of Ardala's manuscripts on the Dragon Fire but I know myself to be standing on thin ice with Miss Griffin and even more so with M'Trika so I decide to be straightforward and honest about all. "We have more than just five remaining manuscripts on the Dragon Fire within our walls," I tell them. "We have at least five hundred manuscripts on the subject which may well be every manuscript ever written or commissioned by Ardala whom we know was the last Witch Guardian of the Dragon Fire."

For what seems a long time, the Panther-morph Witch, who is Head of the Cat Witch Guards, proceeds to grill me on the how, why and wherefore of all this. Miss Griffin is sitting, for the most part quietly, but looking as if she is expecting blame, whether merited or not, and M'Trika's wrath to fall upon her head for some possible part in all this. "But I have seen these manuscripts!" she objects at one point. "I have consulted them on several occasions for my own research and read only histories and genealogies. How did you manage to see this Dragon Fire text?" Once again I have to go through the whole account of how I discovered the Dragon Fire text and formulated the special oil that when burned produces such a light that the Dragon Fire texts stand out clearly. I take heart when M'Trika finally says that she wants to see the texts for herself. Witches, unlike Faeries, are not too likely to take anything said on blind faith or on a person's honour. It was a Witch who coined the original expression, "Put you your money where your mouth is," which stands alongside another popular expression among Witches which is: "You say it is so – now show me your proof." By asking to see my proof, I know that M'Trika is willing, for the moment, to take seriously what I am telling her.

The three of us are in the book vault and the evidence that I have been using the area recently as an office does not go unnoticed by either Miss Griffin or M'Trika. I have to reenact for the two of them how, falling asleep with my cheek on a page of the manuscript, I awoke to see the Dragon Fire text. Miss Griffin tries several times and announces that she is able to read the Dragon Fire texts while her cheek is on the manuscript in the manner I demonstrated but looking straight at the manuscript in a normal reading position she sees only the history and genealogy texts that she has come to expect. I experience a fearful moment when M'Trika tries and claims only to be able to see the history and genealogy texts but not the Dragon Fire texts. Miss Griffin and I suggest that perhaps the reader must have human, not feline, eyes to see the texts. While she is chewing her whiskers on that possibility, I fetch the lamp with the special oil and light it... and fortunately, (or maybe more so for me: "Thank the Goddess!"), all three of us can see and read the Dragon Fire texts under its illumination. M'Trika grills me yet again dragging me through the coals, fire and heat of her barbed interrogation – perhaps expecting me to slip up on some point – but I hold fast and true to my original account. Then she takes my transcription and compares it word-for-word against the original text of the manuscript. "I've seen enough," she says when done.

"I have been telling you for years that that Faerie Bloom is dangerous," I tell Miss Griffin and M'Trika upon returning to Miss Griffin's office. "She is a child in possession of a explosive box of matches that with just one wrong touch can blow up in her face, our faces, the faces of the known universe and disrupt the whole of time and space as we know it."

"To tell the truth, Icy," says Miss Griffin defensively, "I took all that you said about her at the time as something you cooked up to justify a power grab and your attacks on Magix, Red Fountain, Cloud Tower and Alfea College. Furthermore, your allegiance with the likes of Lord Darkar did little to change my opinion."

"What I don't understand," says M'Trika, "is how is it that the Faeries do not realize the danger Bloom poses. Surly they must have some idea."

"The Faeries are in all likelihood as much in the dark on this as you thought we were," I reply, "no thanks to those mad Ancestresses and their crackpot scheme to settle the "Witch Vendetta" over the Dragon fire."

"Speak of the Ancestresses with more respect," snaps M'Trika, her whiskers beginning to twitch.

"Yeah," I snarl back, lathered to the point of almost daring a have-at-her, "I'll give them respect when you can tell me what our esteemed Ancestresses were using for brains when they attacked Sparx, killed Daphne the last Faerie Guardian of the Dragon Fire – who would have trained Bloom – and destroyed the whole Faerie repository of knowledge on the Dragon Fire when they froze the Planet of Sparx and left us all in mortal danger because the most ancient and powerful piece of magic in the universe is now in the hands of a Faerie who has not received even a fraction of the training she requires to handle it. Go choke on that furball, M'Trika!"

"Ladies, some calm and control!" interjects Miss Griffin as M'Trika and I breathe heavily into each other's faces. "It does not matter at this moment who is to blame for starting this. What matters is that as Witches we own this situation and work together to resolve it before the worst does come to pass."

"We need to contact the Faeries and warn them about what danger they and the universe are in because of Bloom," I begin. "We also need to have the High Council of the Sisterhood of Witches made aware of the situation. Then we have to get to that Faerie Bloom, bring her to Cloud Tower, and cram into that grey matter between her two pixie ears at least ten years of training that she should have had even before receiving the Dragon Fire. And that is in the shortest time possible."

"Who will train Bloom?" asks M'Trika.

"I will," I say. But then, seeing M'Trika's whiskers twitching at that and knowing what she is thinking, I tell her point-blank, "Name any Witch you know, M'Trika, who knows more about Dragon Fire and who is better qualified to train Bloom than I am and I will step down. Otherwise, I'm your best and only bet in this crisis and we haven't the luxury of time to argue about it."

The three of us work on a plan of action for the next few hours. When done, M'Trika and I exit Miss Griffin's office by the door as tradition and protocol dictate. We are barely out the door when M'Trika grabs me by my arm with her clawed hand-paw, whirls me around and snarls in my face, "Listen. I don't believe for an instant that you and Darcy are not planing mischief behind all of this. So listen well. If I catch you even thinking of causing trouble, I will bury Darcy so deep that even The Council cannot save her and then I will personally snap that white swan's neck of yours and be rid of you for good. Now get out of my sight before I decide to do it now and save myself the trouble of doing it later." And so, I teleport myself to my apartment as one does when she is fleeing for her life.


	51. Preparation

Hallo!

Ich grüsse Sie meine Leser und Leserinen meines Märchens aus Deutschland. Ich würde mich sehr darüber erfreuen an Besprechungen meines Märchens auf Deutsch oder auf Englischen von Ihnen zu kriegen.

Ælfstangard

Chapter 13: Preparation

Over night the whole temperament and tempo at Cloud Tower changes from the everyday and pedestrian to a hornets' nest of buzzing activity. I suddenly find myself relieved of my duties as professor and assigned the task of developing a training curriculum for Bloom. The task of taking care of Stormy is given over to Ælfscine who takes her into her apartment and has her bunked in the same room as Wesle, the Faerie child. I then find myself with a staff made up of Darcy and the Margay Trix providing secretarial support and statistical services and two researchers who, if not fluent, have a working knowledge of Ancient Witchspeak. The researchers are assisting me in going through all the Dragon Fire manuscripts searching for additional material for training Bloom, organizing that under my direction into "must knows", "should knows", and "could knows" and also searching for more evidence to support our claim to the Faeries that Bloom must be trained beginning immediately if not sooner. I am not only working on a training curriculum but also scouring my share of the manuscripts, screening the ever growing mound of data being compiled by my two researchers and coordinating the creation of briefing notes, manuscript transcripts, charts and diagrams with Darcy and the Margay Trix. Miss Griffin, our resident expert in Ancient Witchspeak, has delegated for herself the task of translating certain of these texts into Modern Witchspeak and also Modern High Alfean for the Faerie envoys.

By day three, the first Faerie envoy, headed by Miss Faragonda of the Alfea College for Faeries, arrives at Cloud Tower. The meetings are conducted in Miss Griffin's office behind closed doors and Darcy and I are not among the Witch invitees. I resent somewhat being uninvited but perhaps then it is for the best because hard feeling against my sisters and me still exist among the Faeries. When the Sisters from the High Council of the Sisterhood of Witches arrive, it is an entirely different story. Not only is my presence required but demanded. Standing under their scrutiny is a terrifying ordeal. Even M'Trika, when in their presence, is so up-tight that I am expecting her to start squeaking with every step she takes. Again, and again and yet again I have to go through with them how I got into the restricted vaults, how I found Adala's manuscripts on the Dragon Fire, how I discovered the hidden texts and came to formulate the special oil that when burned makes the Dragon Fire texts visible to all. Everyone of them insists on seeing the manuscripts for herself and, when done, with one breath they praise me for rediscovering the lost texts, and then, in the next I am chastised roundly for keeping the knowledge of the rediscovery of such important texts to myself.

During the preparations, I start thinking about Bloom and what it will be like to train her on how to use her gift of the Dragon Fire. Bloom is in her early twenties now doing post-graduate studies at Alfea College and probably still hard at it trying to find a way to locate and free her true birth parents. From what I hear, she is even taller than when I first knew her. She still has her big blue eyes, blue-edged wings, and flaming red hair but wears it a little more than shoulder length and in a more adult style. She no longer wears miniskirts and high boots but prefers now to wear knee length dresses and shoes with only modestly high heels and, from all accounts, she is heart-rendingly gorgeous. Her engagement to Prince Sky of Eraklyon fell through on her and Sky ended up marrying Princess Diaspro for political reasons rather than for love. Bloom now goes about the halls of Alfea College, her expression sad and wistful, and her heart no doubt pierced through by the pain of love lost. I grieve for the woman and more so for the bright-eyed and oft times hapless teenager now forever gone. It is said that the worst of enemies often become the best of friends. I hope there is some truth in that for there is really much to admire about Bloom. Perhaps I can eventually become, as Alysoun has suggested, that older sister replacing Daphne whom the Ancestresses in their madness took away from her. But if I am grieving for Bloom my heart must then be breaking for the Faerie of Music. "O Musa!" I whisper to myself. "If you only knew the half of it... if I could only tell you. But perhaps that day will come too."

The day finally arrives when everything is finished and ready for roll-out. The only thing missing now is the presence of Bloom.


	52. Tecna

Chapter 14: Tecna

I have decided that now the time is right to try to contact Tecna on the matter of Stormy. Darcy has finally agreed to accept my plan to seek Tecna's aid in assessing Stormy's condition and, hopefully, to determine whether or not there is any real hope for her progressing beyond the mental state of an eight-year old. It took a lot of arguing and persuasion from both Alysoun and me but, in the end, it is an appeal to Darcy's sisterly love for Stormy that wins over old prejudices and she concedes.

Knowing that the cyborg Faerie requires little sleep and is often up late into the night and early morning, I choose to contact her just after the midnight hour hoping to have a private and quiet conversation with her. I go to the book vault where there is a comm, erect an extra secure privacy shield, and then punch in Tecna's calling sequence.

"Tecna here. I am listening. What do you want?" demands a voice in clipped High Alfean.

"Easy, Icy, easy," I have to remind myself when, for a moment, my temper starts to rise. "She is not being rude. This is just her manner of speaking. Let's not start things off on the wrong foot. Note that she is using non-aggressive pronouns and medium honorifics."

"Who...?" asks Tecna, puzzled as we find ourselves staring at each other across the comm screens. She has not seen me since I bobbed by trademark high ponytail and stopped wearing any heavy makeup and I have not really had a good look at her since she attained her Enchantix status. "Well, well, well!" I'm thinking. "It seems that our ugly duckling techno-geek has been transformed into a beautiful Enchantix swan. Some day soon I will have to check this out."

"Tec?" demands a sleepy, reedy voice from somewhere off-screen. "Who is calling at this early hour?" There is some shuffling and then the unmistakable face of the Faerie of Music appears in the screen, and while the cyborg Faerie is still struggling to put one plus one together to arrive at one-naught, even half asleep, Musa has one plus one making two in a flash.

"Icy!" shouts Musa angrily. "I (aggressive, nasty, and in-your-face) know that's you (she who is without honour and worthy of only my utmost contempt and distain)! You have a lot of nerve/chutzpah calling here!"

"Icy?!" says Tecna. "What is it that you want?" she asks, still employing non-aggressive forms and polite, medium honorifics.

"She wants to cause us trouble, that's what," interrupts Musa. "Tec, just disconnect and have nothing to do with that witch. She's only up to no-good!" and I see her hand reaching for the switch-off button but Tecna grabs it, preventing Musa from breaking the connection. "Enough, Musa," says Tecna coldly, "this is a private conversation and your butting in is rude and unwanted. Now, I can handle this myself so just shove off."

I see that my hoped for quiet conversation with Tecna is rapidly going south because of Musa's presence but to disconnect now would be suspicious and Tecna would probably then erect a firewall of some description to prevent me from ever calling her back. I take a deep breath and go for telling her the main reasons for my call as quickly and succinctly as polite conversation allows.

"I see," says Tecna after contemplating on what I have said for a few moments. "I can provide you with the scans of Stormy's brain you want but any analysis you will have to have done by someone else. I do not have access to any database that contains information on the physiology and anatomy of a normal Storm-Witch brain."

Meanwhile, Musa continues to be a distraction sitting on the bed behind Tecna still within the view of the comm screen scowling and signing behind Tecna's back. "Go way, Icy!" she signs vehemently to me. "I hate you, witch!" I try not to let this faze me but, when Tecna's face is turned from me for a brief moment, I sign back to her, "Musa, be polite or need I come over there to box you ears?" Tecna is again facing me but Musa is signing behind her back, "Just come and try it, broomstick! I'll be waiting."

"Can you come to Cloud Tower?" I ask.

"Yes," replies Tecna, but my kind of magic cannot work efficiently in an environment full of negative energy. I could do it here at Alfea College but I doubt that you and Stormy can get past Miss Faragonda's reinforced barrier."

"Some neutral ground?" I suggest.

"There is a park just outside Alfea Collage and in the middle is a blue gazebo with gold trim. I need to do some preparation before doing this so meet me there in three days at two hours past midday."

"Agreed," I tell her, "and thank you."

"Tecna! Have you fried a circuit?" shouts Musa. "It's a trap. I know it."

"No, Musa, it is a reasonable request for help for someone in need," replies Tecna. "I have no reason to withhold help and, besides, I will not be alone."

"Darn right, Icy, she'll not be alone," shouts Musa into the comm screen. "We'll all be there with her to protect her so if you dare try to harm my girl Tecna I'll..." and then the connection cuts off.

I am standing there blinking from the sudden cut-off and then I realize that I am stinking worse than a lathered dragon and that my clothes are soaked and my hair is dripping with perspiration. But I have my meeting with Tecna. The question now is whether or not Stormy, Darcy and I can pass through the barrier surrounding Cloud Tower.


	53. Meeting at the Blue Gazebo, Part 1

Chapter 15: Meeting at the Blue Gazebo, Part 1

The two intervening days between my call to Tecna and our meeting seem to take forever to pass. I begin to fret that perhaps she will not show or that I am setting up Darcy, Stormy and myself for an ambush. There is still a lot of animosity that exists against us, the Trix, among the six Winx Club Faeries. _I _was even surprised when Tecna agreed to our meeting. Finally, when the day arrives, we all wake up early to get breakfast and then we take Stormy to the bath and scrub her and then Darcy and I scrub each other to within an inch of our lives. At midday, we have a light lunch (for it is not good to fly on a heavy stomach) and get Stormy and ourselves dressed.

I am wearing a sky-blue, knee-length dress with gold stitching about the hemlines of the sleeves which end at the elbow, the neckline and the bottom. I have on a pair of matching blue, low-heeled shoes also with a simple gold design stitched into them. I have put on the minimum of pale-pink foundation, a touch of natural coloured lipstick and my favourite amethyst highlighter along the edges of my ears from the tip of the tops to just short of the earlobes. I am thinking of jewellery but pass on my Gloomix talisman as being too much of a reminder of bad times. The silver etched dragon gorget with the inlaid bits of red sapphire for its eyes and the flames issuing out of its mouth I also pass on figuring that Bloom would most likely misconstrue its intent. I finally settle on a gold mesh gorget with a single large blue ice diamond in the centre and a matching pair of pendant blue ice diamond earrings mounted in gold.

Darcy is wearing a faun-coloured, pleated, knee-length Greek goddess style dress with royal-blue beadwork. As I am, her face is made up with the minimum of medium-pale foundation, a touch of lipstick and some natural coloured blush along the lines of her cheekbones. Her waist-length, warm brown and amber streaked hair she has tied back with a barrette which, owing to a generous donation from Alysoun, features two large indigo-blue flight feathers set in an inverted "V" mounted in silver. On her ears she is wearing a pair of silver earrings which, again thanks to Alysoun, terminate in a small fan made up of multicoloured down feathers. On her feet are sandals with greaves up to her knees.

When it comes to dressing Stormy, I put her into a simple dark mauve dress – dark mauve being Stormy's favourite colour and suiting her well – with silver trim. The hemline of her dress comes down to her knees and the modest yoke is above the bust line but still low enough to show her Whisperian crystal which is embedded into her skin just below her collarbone. The sleeves are short and puffy and the low-heeled shoes she has on match the colour of her dress. I have loaned her my red sash with the silver starfield which I have tied about her waist. Her now straight, blue-black hair I have coiffed so it is longish and shaped down the back of her neck and along the sides it covers part of her cheeks curling slightly under her chin. Her bangs I have trimmed to mid-forehead and, overall, the style is comely without making her look too much like that irritating brat, Chimera. I go to make up her face but stop because after her bath, the glow about her sweet woman-child's face is so radiant as to be angelic, and, unlike Darcy and I, her cheeks possess a natural blush and her lips are also naturally red. Add to this the soft blue lights in her eyes and she is breathtaking

"I guess we are ready," I say to Darcy and she nods.

Stormy has regained her ability to fly but still needs to be guided so Darcy and I take one of her hands each as we lift off from our balcony. We soon pass a tall conifer which has become our reference point and start a countdown. "Five... four... three... two... one...." closing my eyes. "Zero!" I feel a tingling as I hit the barrier and open my eyes expecting to find the three of us back at our apartment but instead I find that I'm outside the barrier.

"We made it, Darcy!" I cry. "Darcy? Darcy!" I call but she is nowhere to be seen but above me is a very surprised Alysoun and beside me is an even more so surprised Miss Griffin.

"What‽ What am I doing here‽" demands Miss Griffin.

"It looks like we are all destined to pay some Faeries a visit," I tell her, "specifically to have that cyborg Faerie, Tecna, assess Stormy's condition."

Miss Griffin floats in front of me with a stern, "Now just wait one minute here!" expression on her face but in her mind she must be doing some analysis of the situation. "Very well," she says aloud. "It would seem that this meeting with Tecna has been preordained. Carry on."

"Look for a blue gazebo in the middle of a park," I shout to Alysoun.

"Kirrrr Reeee!" screams Alysoun as she wings past us.

Alysoun is enjoying herself thoroughly as we make our way towards Alfea College. The Avian-Witch healer is a natural flier whose predator bird wings propel her swiftly and gracefully through the air. She is giving us a live demonstration of her aerial prowess by soaring, diving, circling, swooping to within inches of our heads and barrel rolling. "Crazy feathered showoff!" I yell good-naturedly to her as she swoops by us. "Kirrrr Reeee!" she replies as she barrel rolls once more as she takes the lead guiding us to Alfea College.

I would have never found the meeting place without Alysoun's help. Firstly, my conversation with Tecna was cut short before she could give me an exact location, and – as it turns out – there are a dozen or so parks along the perimeter of Alfea College. Secondly, on the ground, the gazebo is in the centre of a clearing but, from the air, it is partly obscured by the leafy boughs of several large trees nearby. It is on our second pass that Alysoun's eagle eyes catch sight of the gazebo and a ring of eight figures beside it. "Kiii-kikiii-kiiii Riii!" screams Alysoun from above which is the traditional Avian-Witch greeting and also a heads-up to those on the ground that someone is about to land and then she descends bull's-eyeing the centre of the Faerie ring.

The Faeries were expecting Darcy, Stormy and me to show and possibly Miss Griffin but Alysoun's surprise landing must have thrown a very large spanner into the works of any plans – if such plans had been made – for an ambush. To us Witches, Alysoun is our gentle, kind and beloved healer but to the Faeries, who do not know this, she looks too much like a hungry bird of prey armed with wicked talons on her hands and feet, a slashing, hooked beak, and the look of one who is deciding on which of these delicious buggy-wugs she will have first for her dinner. I float in with Stormy settling beside Alysoun and seeing the expressions on the Faeries and before Miss Griffin has landed to overhear or stop me I whisper loudly to Alysoun in Witchspeak, "Don't bother with them, Alysoun. They're squishy, taste horrid, and their fine bones will get lodged in your throat."

"Most likely so," chirps Alysoun with a trill of Avian laughter.

Stormy, who has not been outside of Cloud Tower since her ordeal in the arboretum, is beginning to panic being out in the open and surrounded by strangers. She has her arms about me in a bear hug and is hiding her face in my shoulder. "Easy, Stormy," I gasp, trying to loosen her hold on me. "These are Faeries," I whisper to her in Witchspeak, " just like your playmate, Wesle, only larger." I get her to release her grasp and turn around to face the Faeries but holding tightly to my hand. I notice that all the Faeries are in flight mode with their wings unfurled including, and much to my surprise, Miss Faragonda's which are typical butterfly shaped, white and with gold scrolling. There are the six Faeries who make up the Winx Club and lastly a dour middle-aged Faerie we only know as Grizelda whose dragonfly style wings are a somber brown colour which seems to match her personality. All are wearing dresses with the exception of Tecna who is wearing her mauve, skintight outfit with the comet-shaped headgear. About her waist is a utility belt bristling with gadgets and gizmos and she is definitely prepared to set up shop for business.

Everyone seems to be standing on ceremony but not knowing what to do or say next. I take the initiative that Alysoun has given us to introduce her to the Faeries. I reintroduce Stormy to the group as both "Stormy" and "Leffi" to which Stella, the blonde sunshine Faerie, reacts, upon realizing the Alfean interpretation of Stormy's new name as "Faerie of Light", by suppressing a giggle behind her hand and ribbing Musa with her elbow who is also smirking. All eyes are on Alysoun, now that I have calmed their initial fears of her by introducing her as our healer. Stella gives Alysoun the cold once-over and then looks back at me with an expression that reads: "Whom do you think you're fooling, Icy‽ If this bird-thing's a healer then I will swallow my Solaria ring after dunking it in skunk oil! She's just your muscle you've brought along in case there's a fight," and Musa's expression reads much the same.

I next briefly state our business here. Miss Faragonda gives Tecna the go-ahead and she steps forward. "I can do the scans for you, as I told you before," says Tecna, "but your healer here is going to have to do the analysis of the results."

Alysoun chirps and warbles a series of notes directed at Tecna which, although what she says is in Alfean Standard, it is so disguised by her alto recorder-like voice and strong Avian accent that Tecna can't make it out so I have to interpret: "She is asking if you have a palm computer and if so set it up for acoustic data receive. She is going to send you the data from her sound probes of Stormy as a guide for your scans. You have all better block you ears before she starts. This is going to be loud."

"Yes, I have one here. It will take me only a minute to set up," replies Tecna. And then looking around and seeing that none of her fellow Faeries are moving to cover their ears she says to them in High Alfean, "Do as Icy says and cover your ears unless you want to become stone deaf for a week," then everyone moves quickly to comply.

"Set," announces Tecna after a moment. I place Stormy's hands over her ears and tell her not to remove them until I say. I block my own and, seeing that everyone is ready, I give Alysoun the go-ahead. Alysoun opens her beak-like mouth and the shriek she issues is enough to send every living soul for a mile or more scrambling for their lives. This is followed with about three minutes of whining and whistling that although all have covered their ears everyone is reacting to – especially Musa who looks to be in absolute agony.

Alysoun ends her broadcast with three short chirps. Tecna's palm computer boops and beeps a few times and then announces in an authoritarian voice in Witchspeak, "Data transmission complete," which is shortly followed by a softer voice speaking High Alfean, "Assembling data." Within a minute, there is a three-dimensional depiction of Stormy projected above Tecna's palm computer showing her internals but with black hollows about her head and other parts.

Tecna is looking at the projection in awe with her mouth agape and her eyes about to pop out of her skull. "Impossible!" she gasps.


	54. Meeting at the Blue Gazebo, Part 2

Chapter 16: Meeting at the Blue Gazebo, Part 2

I know that Alysoun is bursting to run up to Tecna to discuss what it is she has found in her probes of Stormy, but, as protocol dictates, she stays put and waits.

"What is it you're seeing, Tecna?" asks Miss Faragonda.

"Alysoun's probes are definitely those of a human or humanoid not a Faerie," explains Tecna, "but the neural net augmentations belongs to a Faerie... specifically, a Faerie from my home world, Binos. I have such a net myself. It is what allows me to interface with many mechanical devices and to process digital data as well as regulating a number of my bodily functions. But I have always been lead to believe that this net is a device that would never bind itself to anything but a Faerie. Someone, somewhere has done a fantastic job of ironing out whatever kinks there were preventing it from binding to other species. I would like to meet whomever did this because she has performed a miracle!"

"This particular net seems to be regulating Stormy's Storm-Witch powers," chirps Alysoun who then goes into a brief account of how Stormy's body collects and then discharges electricity as a storm and how this process was to become a serious problem while she was in captivity that ended up reducing her to the state of the woman-child that she is today.

"That appears to be the correct assessment," replies Tecna, having in this short time acquired the knack to understanding Alysoun's particular flavour of Alfean Standard.

My gaze slides over to Flora, the empathic nature Faerie, who seems to be listening intently to the dialogue between Alysoun and Tecna and seemingly drawing up her notes on how this information relates to her fields of interest and expertise. It is she who specializes in botanical medicine and is said to have cured a Witch named Lucy of a nervous disorder that prevented her from keeping down food thus rendering her pale, weak, and scrawny. Shortly afterwards, a Witch named Prishayati, who is sometimes Alysoun's assistant, cures a Faerie of Fire Blight which left unchecked would have first devoured her wing membranes and then would have spread eventually killing her. Both acts have since been held up by Witches and Faeries alike as iconic examples of how Witches and Faeries should interact with each other. "Harm none and heal all without discrimination," as my mother would have expressed it.

The techno-babble is flying fast and thickly between Alysoun and Tecna – both engrossed in learning about each other's method of scanning. All this is far beyond my understanding of technology and is of no interest to me except for getting me the results I want. I direct my gaze once more to observing the others in the circle.

Bloom is standing in the circle almost directly in front of me dressed in the same sky-blue as I am. True to all the rumours that are circulating at Cloud Tower about her, she has grown to be a gorgeous young woman but a sad, young woman who has had her soul ripped from her and who has lost all desire and taste for life and living. "What has he done to you, Bloom?!" I'm thinking, sadly recalling the news of the break-up with Prince Sky of Eraklyon and his subsequent marriage to Princess Diaspro. "The guy's a fool for abandoning the most powerful Faerie in our universe and for hurting you so, Bloom," I'm raging inside, "either that or he hadn't the backbone to stand up to his parents and protest this arranged marriage which is solely for their political gain. He'll come to rue the day."

More than ever now, I want to become an older sister to Bloom. Ice and Fire can coexist despite popular belief. "We are the compliment of each other, Bloom, and now that I know the origin of your sliver of the Dragon Fire, I realize that we should be joined not separated and fighting each other. Bloom, you are going to get the best training I can give you for all the wit and energy I would have used against you, I now devote to helping you. I regret now the evil I have done you and that it took me so long to come to this realization. And I say that, after your training, you and I should pay a little surprise visit to Eraklyon and, as sisters, we should give Prince Charming over there a taste of Ice-and-Fire where it hurts and where he'll never forget it. Men! My opinion of them has not changed. They're good for only one, maybe two things but outside of that, they are useless and just underfoot. What woman needs that?!" I conclude.

Meanwhile, Stella and Musa are behaving like two buffoons – tittering and laughing behind their hands and making rude gestures and mouthing insults at me when they think the two matriarchs are not watching or cannot see. They are obviously relishing their moment of schadenfreude over Stormy's condition. Their antics may be getting past Miss Faragonda and Grizelda but not Layla, the dark-skinned Faerie who sometimes calls herself Aisha, who is standing next to them glaring at them with her teeth clenched and the flush of anger visible in her cheeks despite her dark hued skin. If she could leave her position in the circle, I am certain, she would be confronting Stella and Musa in a flash and knocking their heads together.

"_Bíi ril ari umeloláad dohiťedal Stormi uť li wa," _says Tecna to me while I'm still deep in thought.

"What?" I say then realize that my linguistic processes have drifted back to Witchspeak during my observations of the others. "I'll scan Stormy's brain now," she was saying to me in Alfean. "Tell Stormy that she has to stay absolutely still for about a minute as I do the scan," she tells me, which I translate into Witchspeak for Stormy's benefit even though she understands well what Tecna has said.

Tecna takes what looks like a magic Faerie wand and passes it above Stormy's head, then in back and in front, and, finally, on either side. "All done," she announces and then her palm computer boops and beeps as before and within a few seconds there is a three dimensional depiction of Stormy's brain hovering over Tecna's computer.

"Her brain looks to be normal," observes Alysoun, "except that the neural network seems to have sent its tendrils all through it. Does that mean that Stormy may now have cybernetic abilities as well as those of a Storm-Witch?"

"I would say she has them," replies Tecna, "but she will need training to be able to use them effectively. It will require an in-depth assessment to know what cybernetic skills she may now have."

I am laughing silently to myself over this revelation. "Here we have a Witch about to train a Faerie but we may now well have a Faerie about to train a Witch. Talk about cross-over and blurring the lines," I'm thinking but aloud I say, "It is a relief to know that Stormy's brain appears to be normal and I thank you for this service, Tecna. But whom exactly do we have before us? Stormy, Leffi or some other individual with only some of Stormy's memories and character traits?"

"I regret that I cannot tell you that," says Tecna with almost sadness in her voice.

There is a flash of movement in the circle as one of them puts up her hand for recognition and Miss Faragonda acknowledges Flora. "I'm confident that I can tell you that," says Flora in a soft voice reminiscent of ferns, peatmoss, colourful flowers springing from the ground, and cute tweeting birdies singing their little hearts out while perched on green flowering branches. "I made mind-to-mind contact with Stormy when I was trapped in one of her cyclone attacks and the image of her mind I still have. However, to do a proper assessment, I need to use my Enchantix powers and have direct physical contact with Stormy."

"Approach," I tell her.

Flora approaches and does a springing jump into the air and while there she spins around with a glowing light surrounding her. When she lands she is dressed in a mostly pink and blue outfit and has spread larger than life butterfly wings of mostly pink and soft green with soft green teardrops along the edge.

Stormy is staring at Flora in absolute, adoring awe and blurts, "Such a beautiful Faerie! I love your dress and your wings! I want wings like yours!" in perfectly enunciated High Alfean, using the appropriate polite pronominal forms and polite, medium honorifics.

"Why, thank you, Sweety," replies Flora surprised to be addressed and flattered in her own language. "You are very pretty and special yourself," she adds while in the circle Stella is mouthing, "Flora! Yuck!" and Musa is just staring at her friend as if she has developed multiple loose screws.

"Sweety," says Flora gently to Stormy, "I'm going to take a wee peek into your mind to find out who you really are. Now I have to put my hands on either side of your head and you may feel a bit strange like you are seeing things though different eyes. But don't be afraid and stay nice and still for me."

"All right," replies Stormy and readies herself. Flora places her hands on Stormy's head while I stand in back of her with my hands comfortingly on Stormy's shoulders. Flora goes into what seems to be a trance and for a long minute Stormy remains absolutely still. Then something spooks her and she pulls suddenly away. This catches Flora and me off-guard and we all fall to the ground in a jumble of arms, legs, bodies, and wings. Stormy is the first to untangle herself but as Flora and I sit up, our foreheads bang together with an audible "Crack!"

"Ouch!" we say in unison. "Oh?" says Flora, questioningly, and then, "Oh!" and then quickly gets up and heading to the others signals them to form a ring about her.

"This is highly irregular, Flora," says Miss Faragonda, but, although they are whispering, I can hear them clearly thanks to a few tricks I have picked up from Lupa. "What seems to be the problem?"

"I just want to tell you what I have discovered before telling those three," whispers Flora. "This is going to change things... perhaps profoundly so."

"Go on," says Miss Faragonda.

"The woman in mauve is definitely Stormy but there is something really strange about her. It is as Alysoun says: she has been reduced to a sweet woman-child who has nothing more on her mind than eating, sleeping and playing with her friends. All the evil that we once associated with Stormy is like gone! If we give her wings and sprinkle her with Faerie dust she could pass as one of us! But the other woman..."

"You mean 'Icy'," interrupts Stella.

"I don't think so," begins Flora.

"Oh, get real, Flora!" says Musa in a loud whisper and pointing her thumb in my direction. "That's Icy even if she has cut her hair short and is wearing different clothes."

"I beg to differ!" replies Flora hotly, becoming uncharacteristically agitated while Stella and Musa scowl at her.

"Stella! Musa! Manners you two," snaps Grizelda. "Continue, Flora."

Flora takes a deep breath as if trying to restore her inner peace and then, in measured words, she continues, "What I'm trying to tell you, Stella, Musa, and the rest of you is that, although in the flesh that is Icy, and a good part of her makeup is Witch... the dominate personality in that body is_ not _Icy, as we once knew her, but a Faerie who calls herself Muta."


	55. Denouement

Chapter 17: Denouement

"What?!" I almost blurt in unison with the other Faeries but manage to hold my tongue and just listen.

"Muta?" says Musa, "but I've heard that name before. Remember, Stella, when we first came to Alfea for a pre-registration orientation to Alfea College with our parents? That is the first time the two of us met and became friends. Tecna and Flora were also there but we hadn't met each other yet. Anyway, while our parents were attending some parents and professors only meeting, the rest of us were taken by Miss Grizelda and some other chaperones on a shopping spree in Magix. You just had to see what was in one of those shops with the scarlet red and black dresses in the window so we strayed away from our group, entered the shop, and found ourselves on the Witch side of Magix and in one of their dress shops."

"What?" says Grizelda. "Stella, Musa, this is the first I've heard of this."

"Sorry, Miss G.," stammers Stella, "but I knew that you would be angry if you knew and by the time I got up the nerve to tell you, both Musa and I were on our way back to our home worlds."

"Very well," says Grizelda somewhat crossly, "what happened then?"

"Anyway," continues Musa, "we rush out of there and then find ourselves in front of the Hex Café."

"I know that dress shop now and you were ten blocks from it going in the wrong direction and heading towards Witch Central in Magix," gasps Miss Faragonda.

"We get there," says Stella, picking up the story, "when, suddenly, some raven-haired witch with a high ponytail comes flying out of the Hex Café, her eyes fixed mostly on Musa, and jabbering away in some crazy gibberish like a madwoman. We both took to the air, split up, and managed to escape to the Faerie side of Magix.

"Well, that still is not quite the truth of it all either," says Musa. "Stella, you escaped only because she was not interested in you, but in me, and I escaped only because she let me go. The truth is, that because I didn't yet know my way around Magix, she herded me into a cul-de-sac and through her was the only way out. She lands in front of me and I could see that besides the raven hair in the high ponytail, she had dark brown eyes and skin a somewhat lighter shade than Flora's and she was wearing a skintight outfit like Tecna's but just really witchy and really, really tough. She was speaking to me in some melodic language I couldn't understand and looking at me as though she were in love with me. It was way beyond freaky! She kept going on and the only things I came to realize were that her name was 'Isha' and the other name 'Muta' which she kept calling me. Occasionally, she would put her fingers to her temples and make a face as if she was suffering from a severe headache and then looking puzzled. Finally, I ask her what is it she wants in what little Witchspeak I know. She replied in Witchspeak that was terrible as if she were just learning it. She realizes that she is not getting through to me and tries Alfean Standard which is also dreadful with Oh's and Ah's in the wrong places as well as stress on the wrong syllables. She continues to call me 'Muta' until I shout at her that it is 'Mu-_sa_' not 'Mu-_ta_'. I guess it was then that she finally came to realize that I was not whom she thought I was and softly asks, 'Can we be friends, Musa?' I told her that there was no way I would be the friend of some wack witch and to let me by which she did. She points towards the second sun and says, 'You have to fly that way,' in broken Alfean. I walk past her and could see that she was crying. I never knew that witches cried. But she was with the look of one whose's heart was broken and that my words had dealt her a hard, emotional blow... but I didn't stick around to find out anything more."

I feel tears coming to my eyes recalling that day and I turn my back to Alysoun, Stormy and the others so they wouldn't see them trickling down my cheeks. "Yes, you broke my heart that day, Musa, and again when you sided with Bloom against me during the time when I thought Bloom had stolen my sliver of the Dragon Fire. But, still I cared for you. Who do you think was watching your back during all those conflicts, Musa? Haven't you ever wondered how it was you had so many narrow escapes and why it was I never used offensive magic against you but only defensive magic to shield myself from your attacks?"

"Are you saying, Flora," asks Bloom, "that Icy has bonded with a Faerie named Muta? Perhaps the dark-haired Witch who chased Musa that day was also Icy. "Isha" sounds to me like "Icy" said with a thick accent."

"That was what I was about to ask too," adds Tecna, "and the manner of dress and hairstyle is very much Icy's former trademark."

"Professor Wizgiz taught us how to change our hair colour during his very first lecture to us and, although it took me a week to learn how to do it, (and Stella giggles), I did do it," recalls Bloom. "Witches can do the same too, I'm sure, and if hair why not eyes and skin colour? It seems to me that the dark-haired Witch was Icy and Musa happens to look like another Faerie she once knew named Muta. I think maybe Icy really has bonded with a Faerie in much the same way we have bonded with our Pixies. There is nothing to say that it cannot happen."

"It seems to be a great deal more than mere bonding of a Witch with a Faerie," picks up Flora, "but more like the elements of a Witch and those of a Faerie are like two kinds of metal that have be alloyed to produce yet another. It is like when you mix gold and copper to get red gold or copper and zinc to get brass. What now occupies Icy's body has the spirit of a completely new kind of creature."

This has even me scratching my head and looking as confused as the other Faeries and everyone else except for Stormy who doesn't seem to be paying any attention to the conversation but has her attention fixed on Flora. Stormy, seeing that her favourite Faerie is becoming more and more distressed and frustrated trying to explain our new natures to her comrades, leaves my side and starts marching purposely towards the circle of Faeries. I move to stop her and bring her back but then Alysoun stops me and chirps quietly into my ear, "Let her go. I think she is about to perform some magic of her own."

"Pretty Faerie needs huggies?" she asks Flora with a frown creasing her woman-child's forehead, her arms held open, and her eyes bright with soft blue light. Flora takes Stormy into her arms and folds her Enchantix wings about her like a mother bird protecting her chick while Musa's expression turns into an angry, outraged snarl.

"Musa!" shouts Layla, no longer able to contain her anger. "You shame us! How dare you think evil against this child! Yes, I heard you and Stella talking."

"This child, as you call her," shouts Musa in return, "is no less than an evil witch who attacked me and my dad. She still owes me pay-back, big time. And so do those other witches, Icy and Darcy."

"You have received your pay-back from all of us, Musa," I'm thinking. "I have never carried out a personal attack against you. It was Darcy and Stormy who were attacking you all this time. The personal attacks you thought were from me were really from Darcy disguised as me. The two of them came to realize very early on that I held some special feelings for you, so, when they were angry with me, they kept hitting on you to try to get back at me. I knew this was going on but I let it be because you are so much like Muta that I knew that you were tough enough to take it and to dish it out too. For if Muta ever taught me anything about Faeries it was that they are not wimps. But when Stormy attacked your father, that was crossing the line, and I decided this had to stop. I got word of what Stormy had done even before she got back to Cloud Tower. When she showed up, I was waiting for her and I kicked her sorry butt four times around the perimeter of Cloud Tower: once for messing with_ my _Faerie, twice for picking on an old man, who had no means of defending himself, and for not having the guts to face me who was the real source of her anger, a third time for allowing you to beat her, and, a fourth time because I was fuming about the first three things, for good Witch form, and because I could. Then I got both Stormy and Darcy in one place, knocked both their heads together, and slapped them silly, and told them point-blank that if they dared to pull any more such stunts – they would not_ live_ to rue the day. And luckily for them, no cats, black or otherwise, crossed my path that day for I would have probably kicked them too. And the pay-back you extracted from me, if you wish to see it so, is the pain you put in my heart the day you spurned my offer of friendship."

"Is being reduced to a woman-child not cruel and unusual punishment enough for you?" asks Layla of Musa. "She is as Flora says: an innocent child with nothing more on her mind than eating, sleeping, and playing with her friends. The woman-child before you is no longer 'Stormy' but 'Leffi' and, even without wings and only one heart, she is far more a Faerie of Light than a Witch. Are you that vindictive, Musa, to want to punish a child for something her mother did years ago now? I thought not."

"Ouch!" I whisper to Alysoun whose Avian ears are also picking up on this. "I knew she had it in for Musa and Stella but I had no idea she was that ticked. She makes any pin-back from M'Trika sound like the mewing of a fluffy kitten," and Alysoun makes a short whistle of agreement in reply.

"Stella, you have no reason to stand there smirking either," says Layla, fixing her gaze upon the sunlight-haired Faerie. "You keep going on and on about how Icy trapped you, how Icy stole you Solaria ring how Icy did this to you and that to you. Newsflash for you, Stella. We all suffered at the hands of Icy and the Trix and Bloom even more so than you ever did yet she does not dwell on it all the time and allow it to fill her full of hate and anger. You amend you attitude now, Stella, before it turns you into someone as black-hearted and wicked as we accuse the Witches of being. And if you need some incentive to make that change, Stella, I promise you that the next time you start up on Icy and the Trix, then for your sake, (and shaking her fist at Stella), I will deal you a loving, sisterly, and royal princess-to-princess rap in the mouth – then you will have something to really gripe about!"

There is a pause as Layla looks around at all and even the two matriarchs are looking shocked and taken aback. "We all are very good at talking-the-talk," says Layla in calmer tones. "Oh, yes. We love to brag about how perfect we all are and how good we are, yet, when it comes to walking-the-walk we make a pitiful showing. It is time we put our Faerie pride and honour down where our collective mouths are and show all that we can walk-the-walk as well. And we can start with the Trix. The Trix are finished: Icy is no more, Stormy is no more and Darcy is locked up in Cloud Tower where she can do us no harm. How long are we going to keep kicking an enemy that is defeated and crawling on the ground? It is high time that we show them some magnanimity for we cannot pass up the chance to accept these new creatures and welcome them with open hearts and arms as our new Sisters. Do you not agree, Musa? Stella?" However, when the pair of them only stand there in silence with their eyes cast downward, Layla continues, "I will take that to mean 'yes'. What about you, Tecna?"

"It is the only logical way to go," replies Tecna.

"And you, Flora," says Layla, turning to the Faerie of Nature, "I know that you agree because, of all of us, your spirit is the gentlest and most peace-loving."

"I do," replies Flora shyly, "and thank you, Layla."

"Bloom? What do you say?" asks Layla.

Bloom hesitates for a moment and then, just as she is about to reply, Miss Griffin uses her authority as Headmistress of Cloud Tower to step into the circle of Faeries and announce, "Bloom, you shall be coming to Cloud Tower to receive training on using the Dragon Fire. You Faeries may have lost all your manuscripts on the Dragon Fire when the Ancestresses froze Sparx but we Witches have all of ours and Icy has made it her goal in life to read all of them and train herself to be the Witch Guardian of the Dragon Fire. She is now the only expert on the subject so she will be training you."

"This is true, Bloom," confirms Miss Faragonda. "You are on sabbatical leave from Alfea College for as long as it takes for you to complete your training at Cloud Tower. Afterwards, Icy will be spending time at Alfea College to learn of our ways and our kind of magic. Knowing Icy's reputation, she will be an excellent student and she may even achieve a new type of Enchantix."

"Whoa!" I'm thinking, as much taken by surprise as the Winx Club Faeries and Alysoun. "I wasn't aware that this was in the works but still I'll look upon my training at Alfea College as a challenge. And then I laugh to myself thinking how my presence at Alfea College as a student is going to tie knots in so many Faerie wings.

"There you go, Bloom," says Layla, smiling at the red-headed Faerie. "Training from the expert on the Dragon Fire. What more could you ask for?" and Bloom smiles while looking in my direction.

Layla breaks from the ring of Faeries and heads towards me but before she reaches me, a light glows about her, and she achieves Enchantix form just seconds before she takes my hand and kisses my temple. "I welcome you, my new Sister," she says softly into my ear.

«Thank you, Layla,» I tell her telepathically while kissing her temple in return. «You have restored my faith in Faeries. From now on and no matter what happens, I am your Witch. Let anyone dare harm you or those you love or speak evil of you or them and I will personally cut out their lying tongues, sever their right hands from their bodies and suffer them to look on as I cast them to the dogs to be devoured.»

«Spoken like a Witch, I guess,» replies Layla, smiling with her eyebrows slightly arched. «I think that is a bit harsh but I appreciate the sentiment behind it. Thank you. But how did you know, Isha, that I could hear you?»

«A guess,» I tell her honestly.

Then, I feel a hand taking my other hand and turn to see Flora standing beside me. Then Bloom takes Flora's other hand and Tecna takes Layla's other hand and finally Musa and Stella take hands to complete the circle. And, so we stand for a long time hand in hand in a circle looking like seven silver charms affixed to a silver bracelet.


	56. Epilogue

Chapter 18: Epilogue

Sitting in a bower that exists everywhere but nowhere and in no time but in all time is a young woman with her raven hair done up in a high ponytail. Her eyes are dark chocolate and her skin tone is Mediterranean olive. She is dressed in a black leather dress and a lacy silken white blouse over which she is wearing a sleeveless black bolero. Leaning against the tree beside her is her staff that looks to be made of diamond with a large blue ice diamond sphere affixed to the top. On her lap sits a blue and white bunny showing no fear of her and in the tall grass not too far from her sleeps a purple duck with its head tucked under its wing. Her companion is a Werecat: humanoid with the body of a healthy, muscular young man but with the tail and face of a tiger. His body is entirely covered in thick, white fur with black stripes and from his back stretch two white feathered wings.

"But I don't understand," says Ishandra in her southern dialect of Italian. "How can this be?"

"It is," replies the Werecat in the same dialect of Italian, "because all that needed to transpire has transpired and the meld could proceed."

"So, I'm no longer the Witch who called herself Icy or the Faerie who called herself Muta?" queries Ishandra.

"No you are neither one of them but still both of them – a new creature born of the essence of the two but melded so completely as to be one creature," explains the Werecat.

"But I still consider myself to be a Witch and my name to be Ishandra – so this is what I will call myself until I can figure a new name for what I am now," she says.

"Calling yourself a Witch is not bad," he replies. "In an old form of your father's language, 'Witch' or 'Wicce', which sound exactly alike, means 'she who is wise'. These women were healers, such as yourself, wise in the ways of Nature and her moods, keepers of the tribe's oral traditions, advisors and many other such things. They were respected members of the community and did much good as you and your retinue of six Faeries are doing."

"That is ironic," says Ishandra, "because my name, Ishandra, also means 'she who is wise' in another language.

"What is going to happen to Darcy and Stormy now that our Trix has broken up and I live in my own ice palace?"

"Stormy, as Layla has said, is no more. She died that night in the arboretum," says the Werecat. "I'm sorry, Ishandra. All you rescued was a breathing corpse."

"It's Matchka's fault then that she's dead!" says Ishandra, her temper rising.

"No, Ishandra. It was meant to be whether or not Matchka helped or hindered," says the Werecat gently. "When I got to Stormy, there was nothing left of her but a few childhood memories. I cleaned those up, and for Darcy's sake, I gave them back to her. That's what Vulpa detected as an infant and Flora believes is Stormy. She is now Levina or Leffi as she prefers to call herself. Ælfscine will accelerate her education so it will match that of a young woman of her apparent physical age. I gave her the neural net when I saw that her storm powers had also re-emerged and needed to be controlled quickly. For even though Stormy may be gone, Leffi will forever be a Storm-Witch but a new kind of Storm-Witch and will always retain much of the woman-child. She will spend time on the Faerie world of Binos where Tecna will train her to use her cybernetic powers. She will drive Tecna and everyone else on Binos crazy for a time," he says with a catlike smile and a purr in his voice, "until they come to realize that she will never be ruled by order and logic. Her childlike nature and clairvoyance will allow her to be inventive with her new cybernetic abilities in ways that the natives of Binos cannot approach. She will live on her own, go her own way, and prosper.

Matchka was taken to her home world and adjusted. She no longer remembers having a sister or you and the Trix. She has since taken a mate and given birth to her first litter. One of this litter named M'Iress is the reincarnation of her sister who was lost during the Alfea Wars but neither will know that but will find themselves bonded much more strongly to each other than is usual for even a mother and her daughter. And she'll be back into your life someday soon and you will be friends with both her and her daughter.

Vulpa will die within the next few years – burnt out and exhausted. Her passing will be swift and merciful for she will have done much good with her extraordinary gift and she will be greatly mourned."

"What about Darcy?" asks Ishandra.

"Darcy," says the Werecat with much sadness in his voice, "will become powerful because of an evil snake that dwells within her heart and gives her her powers of delusion and deception. She with a Terran Witch named Mitzi and an Alfean Witch named Morgana will form a new Trix and she and they will be cause of a very costly war between Witches and Faeries in terms of lives lost, and untold strife and destruction. You and your Faeries will be among the many who will fight against her. In the end, Darcy and her Trix will be defeated and then your healing powers and also Bloom's will face their greatest challenge in driving from Darcy's body that snake that dwells within her and seeing to its final destruction."

"You mentioned giving Stormy – or should I say Leffi – her neural net. It was you then who was giving me the other gifts, wasn't it?" asks Ishandra.

"Yes, it was I," purrs the Werecat, "who gave you all those things as well as seeing to your new accommodations and giving you the dragon gorget which once belonged to Ardala."

"Then someday I will become a Guardian of the Dragon Fire?" asks Ishandra hopefully.

"You continue to call yourself a Witch, Ishandra, therefore you are already the Witch Guardian of the Dragon Fire," he smiles.

"What?!" exclaims Ishandra, shocked into to sitting bolt upright. "But how...?"

"Think on it," encourages the Werecat. "What did Alysoun tell you about the slivers of the Dragon Fire that were given to the Witches, Faeries, and Humans?"

"She said that they were unique to each group," responds Ishandra.

"Correct," says the Werecat, "and what do we know of the Great Dragon."

"We know that by order of the Goddess She created the universe with Her breath and that She is the mother of all dragons," responds Ishandra.

"Again, correct," says the Werecat. "Now name the powers of the four kinds of dragons and all the meanings and symbols of the word 'fire' in Ancient Witchspeak."

"There are earth dragons, air dragons, fire or sometimes called red, hot, or burning fire dragons, and, finally, there are water dragons which are sometimes called vapour dragons, and, ice, and snow dragons too depending upon which state of the element of water they are in," replies Ishandra. "And the meanings for 'fire' in Ancient Witchspeak... let me see... it can mean 'red, hot, or burning fire' which is its general meaning, it can mean the 'quintessential element of something', in some cases, it can mean 'spirit' and 'white fire' is poetic in Ancient Witchspeak for 'driving ice and snow'."

"Now, put that all together and what can you conclude?" asks the Werecat. "I will start you off. The Great Dragon kept the element or fire of the air dragons for herself. The Humans received the element or fire of the earth dragons and the Faeries... What does Bloom possess?"

"Bloom or the Faeries must have the red or burning fire of the fire dragons and the Witches got...," and then her eyes open wide in disbelief. "The Witches received the fire of the ice dragons or the 'white fire'!" exclaims Ishandra.

"Now you see it," confirms the Werecat. "Your powers over ice and snow do not come from dead planets as you believed but from the Witches' sliver of the Dragon Fire which the Great Dragon gave you Herself."

"I have been such a fool!" cries Ishandra, burying her face in her hands and her shoulders shaking with her sobs. "O Bloom! O Alfea! O Mother Goddess! What have I done! How can you ever forgive me?!"

"But you have already been forgiven, Ishandra. The Goddess Herself has forgiven you. She is the ultimate power and even the Great Dragon and everyone else obeys Her."

"But why would She forgive me?" sobs Ishandra. "I have caused so much pain, havoc, destruction and even death in my foolish quest to steal Bloom's Dragon Fire. How can_ that _be forgiven?"

"But look what good you have achieved in the last little while," points out the Werecat. "You have forgiven those who killed your mother and follow her path as a wise woman and healer, you have forgiven the Winx for the harm they did you during the fighting, you have expressed your regret and have repented for having hurt Bloom and for trying to steal her Dragon Fire. You have trained Bloom on how to use her gift of the Red Dragon Fire so she is now a healer and a great many other good things that she would never have become otherwise. You also prevented a looming disaster and have become to Bloom like an older sister. The Winx Club Faeries under your leadership are more united that ever with a clear sense of purpose and direction. They are even stronger now than ever before. You still care for and watch over Leffi. And, thanks to your teaching as a professor at Cloud Tower, you have imbued a whole generation of young Witches with the spirit that witchcraft should never be used to do harm but rather to do good and to help all. Because of them and your teachings, the old evil order of Witches will topple and new and benevolent order shall arise. In short, you have turned yourself around from being one who treads upon the path of darkness to one who walks the path of The Light. Anyone who achieves this is worthy of the Goddess' forgiveness. And lastly, and as Layla would have pointed out to you, you are a new creature. The old and wicked Witch named Icy is dead and gone so how can you, a new creature, be held accountable for all the evil she did?"

"Thank you for enlightening me," sobs Ishandra, the tears still trickling down her cheeks.

"Now dry your tears and make ready for I must take you back to your time and place on Alfea," says the Werecat, taking Ishandra's chin gently into his hand-paw.

"May I not stay just a little longer?" asks Ishandra while drying her eyes.

"Just a little while longer," he replies to her.

"Huggies?" she asks, almost childlike with her arms held open and a soft light in her eyes.

"For sure!" purrs the Werecat taking Ishandra into his arms and then covering her protectively with his wings. "Anything for my beloved and precious Little One," he purr-whispers softly into her ear.

*** THE END ***


End file.
